''Ventures 


Grafiam 
ThWps 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

CALIFORNIA 

SANTA    CRUZ 


SANTA     CRUZ 


< 
z 

o 


Gift  oi 
Lem  C.    Brown 


SANTA     CRUZ 


EMILY. 


A  WOMAN 
VENTURES 

A  NOVEL 


BY 

DAVID  GRAHAM  PHILLIPS 

AUTHOR  OF 

THE  FASHIONABLE  ADVENTURES  OF 
JOSHUA  CRAIG.  THE  HUSBAND'S  STORY,  ETC. 


WITH   FRONTISPIECE  BY 
WILLIAM  JAMES  HURLBUT 


GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS          :       :          NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1902, 
BY  FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANV 

All  rights  reserved 


3£3j 


CONTENTS. 

:HAPTER  PAGE 

I.    THE  SHIPWRECK          .  .  .        i 

II.    THE  DESERT  ISLAND               .  .  .        8 

IIL    SAIL— Ho!        .....      16 

IV.    A  BLACK  FLAG             .           .  .  .23 

V.    THE  PENITENT  PIRATE           .  .  .31 

VI.    A  CHANGED  CRUSOE               .  .  .39 

VII.  BACK  TO  THE  MAINLAND       .  .  .45 

VIII.  AMONG  A  STRANGE  PEOPLE    .  .  .57 
IX.    AN  ORCHID  HUNTER              .  .  .67 

X.    FURTHER  EXPLORATION         .  .  .79 

XI.    SEEN  FROM  A  BARRICADED  WINDOW  .      93 

XII.    A  RISE  AND  A  FALL                .  .  .     101 

XIII.  A  COMPROMISE  WITH  CONVENTIONALITY     .    112 

XIV.  "  EVERYTHING  AWAITS  MADAME  "  .  .120 
XV.    A  FLICKERING  FIRE               .  .  .126 

XVI.    EMBERS             .           .           .  .  .138 

XVII.    ASHES               ,           .           .  .  .152 

XVIII.    "THE  REAL  TRAGEDY  OF  LIFE"  .  .     167 

XIX.    EMILY  REFUSES  CONSOLATION  .  .176 

XX.    BACHELOR  GIRLS       ,           .  .  .185 

XXI.    A  "  MARRIED  MAN  ".           .  .  .199 

XXII.    A  PRECIPICE    .           .           .  .  .213 

XXIII.  A  "  BETTER  SELF  "     .           .  .  .225 

XXIV.  To  THE  TEST  .            .            .  .  .238 
XXV.    MR.  GAMMELL  PRESUMES     .  .  .    248 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 

XXVI.  THE  TRUTH  ABOUT  A  ROMANCE 

XXVII.  "IN  MANY  MOODS"    . 

XXVIII.  A  FORCED  ADVANCE 

XXIX.  A  MAN  AND  A  "  PAST." 

XXX.  Two  AND  A  TRIUMPH 

XXXI.  WHERE  PAIN  is  PLEASURE 

XXXII.  THE  HIGHWAY  OF  HAPPINESS 

XXXIII.  LIGHT 


PAGE 

257 

269 

278 
288 
299 
308 

324 


A  Woman  Ventures. 


CHAPTER  I. 
THE  SHIPWRECK. 

WENTWORTH  Bromfield  was  mourned 
by  his  widow  and  daughter  with  a 
depth  that  would  have  amazed  him. 
For  twenty-one  years  he  had  been 
an  assistant  secretary  in  the  Depart 
ment  of  State  at  Washington — a  rather  conspicuous 
position,  with  a  salary  of  four  thousand  a  year.  In 
fluential  relatives  representing  Massachusetts  in  the 
House  or  in  the  Senate,  and  often  in  both,  had  en 
abled  him  to  persist  through  changes  of  administra 
tion  and  of  party  control,  and  to  prevail  against  the 
"pull"  of  many  an  unplaced  patriot.  Perhaps  he 
might  have  been  a  person  of  consequence  had  he 
exercised  his  talents  in  some  less  insidiously  lazy 
occupation.  He  had  begun  well  at  the  law ;  but  in 
return  for  valuable  local  services  to  the  party,  he  got 
the  offer  of  this  political  office,  and,  in  what  he  came 
to  regard  as  a  fatal  moment,  he  accepted  it.  His 
wife — he  had  just  married — said  that  he  was  "  going 
in  for  a  diplomatic  career."  He  faintly  hoped  so 
himself,  but  the  warnings  of  his  common  sense  were 


2       A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

soon  verified.  "  Diplomatic  career  "  proved  to  be 
a  sonorous  name  for  a  decent  burial  of  energy  and 
prospects. 

He  had  drawn  his  salary  year  after  year.  He  had 
gone  languidly  through  his  brief  daily  routine  at 
the  Department.  He  had  been  mildly  fluttered  at 
each  Presidential  election,  and  again  after  each  in 
auguration.  He  had  indulged  in  futile  impulses  to 
self-resurrection,  in  severe  attacks  of  despondency. 
Then,  at  thirty-seven,  he  had  grasped  the  truth — 
that  he  would  remain  an  assistant  secretary  to  the 
end  of  his  days.  Thenceforth  aspirations  and  de 
pressions  had  ceased,  and  his  life  had  set  to  a  cyni 
cal  sourness.  He  read,  he  sneered,  he  ate,  and  slept. 

The  Bromfields  had  a  small  additional  income — 
Mrs.  Bromfield's  twelve  hundred  a  year  from  her 
father's  estate.  This  was  most  important,  as  it  rep 
resented  a  margin  above  comfort  and  necessity,  a 
margin  for  luxury  and  for  temptation  to  extrava 
gance.  Mr.  Bromfield  was  fond  of  good  dinners 
and  good  wines,  and  he  could  not  enjoy  them  at 
the  expense  of  his  friends  without  an  occasional  re 
turn.  Mrs.  Bromfield  had  been  an  invalid  after  the 
birth  of  Emily,  long  enough  to  form  the  habit  of 
invalidism.  After  Emily  passed  the  period  when 
dress  is  not  a  serious  item,  they  went  ever  more 
deeply  into  debt. 

While  Mrs.  Bromfield's  craze  for  doctors  and 
drugs  was  in  one  view  as  much  an  extravagance  as 
Mr.  Bromfield's  club,  in  another  view  it  was  a  valu 
able  economy.  It  made  entertaining  impossible ;  it 


THE    SHIPWRECK.  3 

enabled  Emily  to  go  everywhere  without  the  ne 
cessity  for  return  hospitalities,  and  to  "  keep  up  ap 
pearances  "  generally.  Many  of  their  friends,  gave 
Mrs.  Bromfield  undeserved  credit  for  shrewdness 
and  calculation  in  her  hypochondria. 

Emily  had  admirers,  and,  in  her  first  season,  one 
fairly  good  chance  to  marry.  The  matchmakers 
who  were  interested  in  her — "  for  her  mother's  sake/' 
they  said,  but  in  fact  from  the  matchmaking  mania, 
— were  exasperated  by  her  refusal.  They  remon 
strated  with  her  mother  in  vain. 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  sighed  Mrs.  Bromfield.  "  But 
what  can  I  do  ?  Emily  is  so  headstrong  and  I  am 
in  such  feeble  health.  I  am  forbidden  the  agita 
tion  of  a  discussion.  I've  told  Emily  that  a  girl 
without  money,  and  with  nothing  but  family,  must 
be  careful.  But  she  won't  listen  to  me." 

Mrs.  Ainslie,  the  most  genuinely  friendly  of  all 
the  women  who  insured  their  own  welcome  by  chap 
eroning  a  clever,  pretty,  popular  girl,  pressed  the 
matter  upon  Emily  with  what  seemed  to  her  an 
impertinence  to  be  resented. 

"  Don't  be  offended,  child,"  said  Mrs.  Ainslie, 
replying  to  Emily's  haughty  coldness.  "  You  ought 
to  thank  me.  I  only  hope  you  will  never  regret  it. 
A  girl  without  a  dot  can't  afford  to  trifle.  A  second 
season  is  dangerous,  especially  here  in  Washington, 
where  they  bring  the  babies  out  of  the  nursery  to 
marry  them  off." 

*'  Why,  you  yourself  used  to  call  Bob  Fulton  one 
of  nature's  poor  jokes,"  Emily  retorted.  "  You 


4       A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

overlooked  these  wonderful  good  qualities  in  him 
until  he  began  to  annoy  me." 

"  Sarcasm  does  not  change  the  facts."  Mrs.  Ains- 
lie  was  irritated  in  her  even-tempered,  indifferent 
fashion.  "You  think  you'll  wait  and  look  about 
you.  But  let  me  tell  you,  my  dear,  precious  few 
girls,  even  the  most  eligible  of  them,  have  more 
than  one  really  good  chance  to  marry.  Oh,  I  know 
what  they  say.  But  they  exaggerate  flirtations 
into  proposals.  This  business — yes,  business — of 
marrying  isn't  so  serious  a  matter  with  the  men  as 
it  is  with  us.  And  we  can't  hunt ;  we  must  sit  and 
wait.  In  this  day  the  stupidest  men  are  crafty 
enough  to  see  through  the  subtlest  kind  of  stalking." 

Emily  had  no  reply.  She  could  think  of  no  argu 
ments  except  those  of  the  heart.  And  she  felt 
that  it  would  be  ridiculous  to  bring  them  into  the 
battering  and  bruising  of  this  discussion. 

It  was  in  May  that  she  refused  her  "good 
chance."  In  June  her  father  fell  sick.  In  mid-July 
they  buried  him  and  drove  back  from  the  cemetery 
to  face  ruin. 

Ruin,  in  domestic  finance,  has  meanings  that 
range  from  the  borderland  of  comedy  to  the  black- 
ness  beyond  tragedy. 

The  tenement  family,  thrust  into  the  street  and 
stripped  of  their  goods  for  non-payment  of  rent, 
find  in  ruin  an  old  acquaintance.  They  take  a  cer 
tain  pleasure  in  the  noise  and  confusion  which  their 
uproarious  bewailing  and  beratings  create  through 
out  the  neighbourhood.  They  enjoy  the  passers-by 


THE    SHIPWRECK.  5 

pausing  to  pity  them,  a  ragged  and  squalid  group, 
homeless  on  the  curb.  They  have  been  ruined 
many  times,  will  be  ruined  many  times.  They  are 
sustained  by  the  knowledge  that  there  are  other 
tenements,  other  "  easy-payment  "  merchants.  A 
/few  hours,  a  day  or  two  at  most,  and  they  are  com 
pletely  reestablished  and  are  busy  making  new 
friends  among  their  new  neighbours,  exchanging 
reminiscences  of  misfortune  and  rumours  of  ideal 
"  steady  jobs." 

The  rich  family  suddenly  ruined  has  greater 
shock  and  sorrow.  But  usually  there  are  breaks  in 
the  fall.  A  son  or  a  daughter  has  married  well ; 
the  head  of  the  family  gets  business  opportunities 
through  rich  friends  ;  there  is  wreckage  enough  to 
build  up  a  certain  comfort,  to  make  the  descent 
into  poverty  gradual,  almost  gentle. 

But  to  such  people  as  the  Bromfields  the  word 
ruin  meant — ruin.  They  had  not  had  enough  to 
lose  to  make  their  catastrophe  seem  important  to 
others  ;  indeed,  the  fact  that  a  little  was  saved  made 
their  friends  feel  like  congratulating  them.  But  the 
ruin  was  none  the  less  thorough.  They  were  shorn 
of  all  their  best  belongings — all  the  luxury  that  was 
through  habit  necessity.  They  must  give  up  the 
comfortable  house  in  Connecticut  Avenue,  where 
they  had  lived  for  twenty  years.  They  must  leave 
their  associations,  their  friends.  They  must  go  to 
a  New  England  factory  village.  And  there  they 
would  have  a  tiny  income,  to  be  increased  only  by 
the  exertions  of  two  women,  one  a  helpless  hypo- 


6       A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

chondriae,  both  ignorant  of  anything  for  which  any 
one  would  give  pay.  And  this  cataclysm  was 
wrought  within  a  week. 

"  Fate  will  surely  strike  the  finishing  blow/' 
thought  Emily,  as  she  wandered  drearily  through 
the  dismantling  house.  "  We  shall  certainly  lose 
the  little  we  have  left."  And  this  spectre  haunted 
her  wakeful  nights  for  weeks. 

Mr.  Bromfield  was  not  a  "  family  man."  He  had 
left  his  wife  and  home  first  to  the  neglect  of  ser 
vants,  and  afterward  to  the  care  of  his  daughter. 
As  Emily  grew  older  and  able  to  judge  his  life-fail 
ure,  his  vanity,  his  selfishness — the  weaknesses  of 
which  he  was  keenly  conscious,  he  saw  or  fancied 
he  saw  in  her  clear  eyes  a  look  that  irritated  him 
against  himself,  against  her,  and  against  his  home. 
He  was  there  so  rarely  that  the  women  never  took 
him  into  account.  Yet  instead  of  bearing  his  death 
with  that  resigned  fortitude  which  usually  charac 
terises  the  practical,  self-absorbed  human  race  in  its 
dealings  with  the  inevitable,  they  mourned  him  day 
fond  night. 

After  one  of  his  visits  of  business  and  consolation, 
General  Ainslie  returned  home  with  tears  in  his 
•eyes. 

"  It  is  wonderful,  wonderful !  "  he  said  in  his 
"  sentimental  "  voice — a  tone  which  his  wife  under 
stood  and  prepared  to  combat.  She  liked  his  senti 
mental  side,  but  she  had  only  too  good  reason  to  de 
plore  its  influence  upon  his  judgment. 

"  What  now  ?"  she  inquired. 


THE    SHIPWRECK.  7 

"  I've  been  to  see  Wentworth's  widow  and  daugh 
ter.  It  was  most  touching,  Abigail.  He  always 
neglected  them,  yet  they  mourn  him  in  a  way  that 
a  better  man  might  envy." 

"  Mourn  him  ?  Why,  he  was  never  at  home. 
They  hardly  knew  him." 

"  Yet  I  have  never  seen  such  grief." 

"  Grief?  Of  course.  But  not  for  him.  They 
don't  miss  him  ;  they  miss  his  salary — his  four  thou 
sand  a  year.  And  that's  the  kind  of  grief  you  can't 
soothe.  The  real  house  of  mourning  is  the  house 
that's  lost  its  breadwinner." 

General  Ainslie  looked  uncomfortable. 

"  Do  you  remember  that  Chinese  funeral  we  saw 
at  Pekin,  George  ?  "  his  wife  continued.  "  Do  you 
remember  the  widows  in  covered  cages  dragging 
along  behind  the  corpse — and  the  big  fellow  with 
the  prod  walking  behind  each  cage  ?  And  when 
ever  the  widows  stopped  howling,  don't  you  remem 
ber  how  those  prods  were  worked  until  the  response 
from  inside  was  satisfactory  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but— really,  I  must  say,  Abbie " 

"  Well,  George — poverty  is  the  prod.  No  won 
der  they  mourn  Wentworth." 

General  Ainslie  looked  foolish.  "  I  guess  I  won't 
confess,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  that  it  was  this  after 
noon  I  told  the  Bromfields  they  had  only  five  hun 
dred  a  year  and  the  house  in  Stoughton.  It  would 
encourage  her  in  her  cynicism." 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  DESERT   ISLAND. 


f        ""^HREE  months  later — August,    Septem 
ber,    and     October,    the     months     of 
Stoughton's  glory — gave  Emily  Brom- 
JL.  field    a   minute  acquaintance   with  all 

that  lay  within  her  new  horizon.  She 
was  as  familiar  with  Stoughton  as  Crusoe  with  his 
island — and  was  in  a  Crusoe-like  state  of  depression. 
She  thought  she  had  found  the  lowest  despond  of 
which  human  nature  is  capable  on  the  day  she 
saw  the  top  of  the  Washington  monument  disap 
pear,  saw  the  last  of  the  city  of  her  enjoyments  and 
her  hopes.  But  now  she  dropped  to  a  still  lower 
depth — that  depth  in  which  the  heart  becomes  a 
source  of  physical  discomfort,  the  appetite  fails, 
the  brain  sinks  into  a  stupor  and  the  health  begins 
to  decline. 

"  Don't  be  so  blue,  Emmy,"  Mrs.  Ainslie  had 
said  at  the  station  as  they  were  leaving  Washing 
ton.  "  Nothing  is  as  bad  as  it  seems  in  advance. 
Even  Stoughton  will  have  its  consolations — though 
I  must  confess  I  can't  think  what  they  could  be  at 
this  distance." 

But  the  proverb  was  wrong  and  Stoughton  as  a 
reality  was  worse  than  Stoughton  as  a  foreboding. 
At  first   Emily  was  occupied  in  arranging  their 


THE    DESERT    ISLAND.         9 

new  home — creeper-clad,  broad  of  veranda  and 
viewing  a  long  sloping  lawn  where  the  sun  and  the 
moon  traced  the  shadows  of  century-old  trees.  She 
began  to  think  that  Stoughton  was  not  so  bad  after 
all.  The  "  best  people  "  had  called  and  had  made 
a  good  impression.  Her  mother  had  for  the  mo 
ment  lifted  herself  out  of  peevish  and  tearful  grief, 
and  had  ceased  giving  double  weight  to  her  daugh 
ter's  oppressive  thoughts  by  speaking  them.  But 
illusion  and  delusion  departed  with  the  departing 
sense  of  novelty. 

Nowhere  does  nature  do  a  kindlier  summer  work 
than  in  Stoughton.  In  winter  the  trees  and  gar 
dens  and  lawns,  worse  than  naked  with  their  rus 
tling  or  crumbling  reminders  of  past  glory,  expose 
the  prim  rows  of  prim  houses  and  the  stiff  and  dull 
life  that  dozes  behind  their  walls.  In  winter  no  one 
could  be  deceived  as  to  what  living  in  Stoughton 
meant — living  in  it  in  the  sense  of  being  forced  there 
from  a  city,  forced  to  remain  permanently. 

But  in  summer,  nature  charitably  lends  Stough 
ton  a  corner  of  the  gorgeous  garment  with  which 
she  adorns  its  country.  The  sun  dries  the  muddy 
streets  and  walks,  and  the  town  slumbers  in  com 
fort  under  huge  trees,  whose  leaves  quiver  with  what 
seems  to  be  the  gentle  joy  of  a  quiet  life.  The 
boughs  and  the  creepers  conspire  to  transform  hid 
eous  little  houses  into  crystallised  songs  of  comfort 
and  content.  The  lawns  lie  soft  and  green  and 
restful.  The  gardens  dance  in  the  homely  beauty 
of  lilac  and  hollyhock  and  wild  rose.  Those  who 


10      A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

then  come  from  the  city  to  Stoughton  sigh  at  the 
contrast  of  this  poetry  with  the  harsh  prose  of  city 
life.  They  wonder  at  the  sombre  faces  of  the  old 
inhabitants,  at  the  dumb  and  stolid  expression  of 
youth,  at  the  fierce  discontent  which  smoulders  in 
the  eyes  of  a  few. 

But  if  they  stay  they  do  not  wonder  long.  For 
the  town  in  the  bare  winter  is  the  real  town  the 
year  round.  The  town  of  summer,  tricked  out  in  na 
ture's  borrowed  finery,  is  no  more  changed  than  was 
the  jackdaw  by  his  stolen  peacock  plumes.  The 
smile,  the  gaiety,  is  on  the  surface.  The  prim, 
solemn  old  heart  of  Stoughton  is  as  unmoved  as 
when  the  frost  is  biting  it. 

In  the  first  days  of  November  Emily  Bromfield, 
walking  through  the  wretched  streets  under  bare 
black  boughs  and  a  gray  sky,  had  the  full  bitterness 
of  her  castaway  life  forced  upon  her.  She  felt  as  if 
she  were  suffocating. 

She  had  been  used  to  the  gayest  and  freest  soci 
ety  in  America.  Here,  to  talk  as  she  had  been  used 
to  talking  and  to  hearing  others  talk,  would  have 
produced  scandal  or  stupefaction.  To  act  as  she 
and  her  friends  acted  in  Washington,  would  have 
set  the  preachers  to  preaching  against  her.  There 
was  no  one  with  whom  she  could  get  into  touch. 
She  had  instantly  seen  that  the  young  men  were 
not  worth  her  while.  The  young  women,  she  felt, 
would  meet  her  advances  only  in  the  hope  of  get 
ting  the  materials  for  envious  gossip  about  her. 

"  It  will  be  years,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  before  I 


THE    DESERT    ISLAND.        11 

shall  be  able  to  narrow  and  slacken  myself  to  fit 
this  place.  And  why  should  I  ?  Of  what  use 
would  life  be  ?  " 

She  soon  felt  how  deeply  Stoughton  disapproved 
of  her,  chiefly,  as  she  thought,  because  she  did  not 
conceal  her  resentment  against  its  prying  and  peep 
ing  inquiry  and  its  narrow  judgments.  She  was 
convinced  that  but  for  her  bicycle  and  her  books 
she  would  go  mad.  Her  ever-present  idea,  con 
scious  or  sub-conscious,  was,  "  How  get  away  from 
Stoughton  ?  "  A  hundred  times  a  day  she  repeated 
to  herself,  or  aloud  in  the  loneliness  of  her  room, 
"  How?  how?  how?"  sometimes  in  a  frenzy  ;  again, 
stupidly,  as  if  "  how  "  were  a  word  of  a  complex 
and  difficult  meaning  which  she  could  not  grasp. 

But  there  was  never  any  answer. 

She  had  formerly  wished  at  times  that  she  were 
a  man.  Now,  she  wished  it  hourly.  That  seemed 
the  only  solution  of  the  problem  of  her  life — that, 
or  marriage.  And  she  felt  she  might  as  hopefully 
wish  the  one  as  the  other. 

Year  by  year,  with  a  patience  as  slow  and  per 
severing  as  that  of  a  colony  of  coral  insects,  Stough 
ton  developed  a  small  number  of  youth  of  both 
sexes.  Year  by  year  the  railroads  robbed  her  of  her 
best  young  men,  leaving  behind  only  such  as  were 
stupid  or  sluggard.  Year  by  year  the  young  women 
found  themselves  a  twelvemonth  nearer  the  fate  of 
the  leaves  which  the  frost  fails  to  cut  off  and  disin 
tegrate.  For  a  few  there  was  the  alternative  of 
marrying  the  blighted  young  men — a  desperate 


12     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

adventure  in  the  exchange  of  single  for  double  or 
multiple  burdens. 

Some  of  the  young  women  rushed  about  New 
England,  visiting  its  towns,  and  finding  each  town  a 
reproduction  of  Stoughton.  Some  went  to  the 
cities  a  visiting,  and  returned  home  dazed  and 
baffled.  A  few  bettered  themselves  in  their  quest ; 
but  more  only  increased  their  discontent,  or,  marry 
ing,  regretted  the  ills  they  had  fled.  Those  who 
married  away  from  home  about  balanced  those  who 
were  deprived  of  opportunities  to  marry,  by  the 
girl  visitors  from  other  towns,  who  caught  with 
their  new  faces  and  new  man-catching  tricks  the 
Stoughton  eligible-ineligibles. 

At  twenty  a  Stoughton  girl  began  to  be  anxious. 
At  twenty-five,  the  sickening  doubt  shot  its  anguish 
into  her  soul.  At  thirty  came  despair  ;  and  rarely, 
indeed,  did  despair  leave.  It  was  fluttered  some 
times,  or  pretended  to  be ;  but,  after  a  few  feeble 
flappings,  it  roosted  again.  In  Stoughton  "soci 
ety  "  the  old  maids  outnumbered  the  married 
women. 

Clearly,  there  was  no  chance  to  marry.  Emily 
might  have  overcome  the  timidity  of  such  young 
men  as  there  were,  and  might  have  married  almost 
any  one  of  them.  But  her  end  would  have  been 
more  remote  than  ever.  It  was  not  marriage  in  itself 
that  she  sought,  but  release  from  Stoughton.  And 
none  of  these  young  men  was  able  to  make  a  living 
away  from  Stoughton,  even  should  she  marry  him 
and  succeed  in  getting  him  away. 


THE    DESERT    ISLAND.       13 

She  revolved  the  idea  of  visiting  her  friends  in 
Washington.  But  there  poverty  barred  the  way. 
She  had  never  had  so  very  many  clothes.  Now, 
she  could  afford  only  the  simplest  and  cheapest. 
She  looked  over  what  she  had  brought  with  her 
from  Washington.  Each  bit  of  finery  reminded 
her  of  pleasures,  keen  when  she  enjoyed  them, 
cruelly  keen  in  memory.  The  gowns  were  of  a 
kind  that  would  have  made  Stoughton  open  its 
sleepy  eyes,  but  they  would  not  do  for  Washington 
again. 

The.  people  she  knew  there  were  self-absorbed, 
inclined  to  snobbishness,  to  patronising  contemptu 
ously  those  of  their  own  set  who  were  overtaken  by 
misfortunes  and  could  not  keep  the  pace.  They 
tolerated  these  reminders  of  the  less  luxurious  and 
less  fortunate  phases  of  life,  but — well,  toleration 
was  not  a  virtue  which  Emily  Bromfield  cared  to 
have  exercised  toward  herself.  She  could  hear 
Mrs.  Ainslie  or  Mrs.  Chesterton  or  Mrs.  Connors- 
Smith  whispering  :  "  Yes — the  poor  dear — it's  so 
sad.  I  really  had  to  take  pity  on  her.  No — not  a 
penny — I  even  had  to  send  her  the  railway  fares. 
But  I  felt  it  was  a  duty  people  in  our  position  owe." 

And  so  her  prison  had  no  door. 

Emily  kept  her  thoughts  to  herself.  Her  mother 
was  almost  as  content  as  she  had  been  in  Washing 
ton.  Did  she  not  still  have  her  diseases?  Were 
there  not  doctors  and  drug-shops  ?  Was  there  not 
a  circulating  library,  mostly  light  literature  of  her 
favourite  innocuous  kind  ?  And  did  not  the  old 


H     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

women  who  called  listen  far  more  patiently  than 
her  Washington  friends  to  tedious  recitals  of  symp 
toms  and  of  the  plots  and  scenes  of  novels? 

Emily  could  keep  to  her  room  or  ride  about  the 
country  on  her  bicycle.  She  at  least  had  the  free 
dom  of  her  prison,  and  was  not  disturbed  in  her 
companionship  with  solitude.  With  the  bad 
weather,  she  hid  in  her  room  more  and  more.  She 
would  sit  there  hours  on  hours  in  the  same  position, 
staring  out  of  the  window,  thinking  the  same 
thoughts  over  and  over  again,  and  finding  fresh 
springs  of  unhappiness  in  them  each  time. 

Occasionally  she  gave  way  to  storms  of   grief. 

The  day  she  looked  over  her  dresses  under  the 
stimulus  of  the  idea  of  visiting  Washington  was 
one  of  her  worst  days.  As  she  stood  with  her 
finery  about  her  and  a  half-hope  in  her  heart,  she 
recalled  her  Washington  life — her  school-days,  her 
first  season,  her  flirtations,  the  confident,  arrogant 
way  in  which  she  had  looked  forward  on  life. 
Then  came  the  thought  that  all  was  over,  that  she 
could  not  go  to  Washington,  that  she  must  stay  in 
Stoughton — on  and  on  and  on 

She  grew  hot  and  cold  by  turns,  sank  to  the  floor, 
buried  her  face  in  the  heap  of  cloth  and  lace  and 
silk.  If  the  good  people  of  Stoughton  had  peeped 
at  her  they  would  have  thought  her  possessed  of 
an  evil  spirit.  She  gnashed  her  teeth  and  tore  at 
the  garments,  her  slight  frame  shaking  with  sobs  of 
impotent  rage  and  despair. 

When  she  came  to  herself  and  went  downstairs, 


THE    DESERT    ISLAND.        15 

pale  and  calm  and  cold,  her  mother  was  talking 
with  a  woman  who  had  come  in  to  gossip.  She 
took  up  a  book  and  was  gone. 

"  Your  daughter  is  not  looking  well,"  said  Mrs. 
Alcott,  sourly  resentful  of  Emily's  courteous  frigid- 
ity. 

"  Poor  child  !  "  said  Mrs.  Bromfield,  "  she  takes 
her  father's  death  so  to  heart." 


CHAPTER  III. 

SAIL — HO  ! 

WINTER'S  swoop  upon  Stoughton  that 
year  was  early  and  savage.     In  her 
desperate    loneliness    and   boredom 
Emily  began  occasionally  to  indulge 
in   the   main   distraction  of  Stough 
ton — church.     On  a  Sunday  late  in  March  she  went 
for  the  first  time  since  Christmas.     Her  mother  had 
succumbed  to  the  drugs  and  had  been  really  ill,  so 
ill  that  Emily  did  not  dare  let  herself  admit  the 
dread  of  desolation  which  menaced.     But,  the  crisis 
past,  Mrs.  Bromfield    had   rapidly   returned  to  her 
normal  state.     The   peril  of  death  cowed  or  digni 
fied  her  into  silence.     When  she  again  took  up  her 
complainings,  her  daughter  was  reassured. 

As  she  walked  the  half  mile  to  the  little  church, 
Emily  was  in  better  spirits  than  at  any  time  since 
she  had  come  to  Stoughton.  The  reaction  from 
her  fears  had  given  her  natural  spirits  of  youth  their 
first  chance  to  assert  themselves.  She  found  herself 
hopeful  for  no  reason,  cheerful  not  because  of  bene 
fits  received  or  expected,  but  because  of  calamities 
averted.  "  I  might  be  so  much  worse  off,"  she 
was  thinking.  "  There  is  mother,  and  there  is  the 
income.  I  feel  almost  rich — and  a  little  ungrateful. 
I'm  in  quite  a  church-going  mood." 


SAIL--HO!  17 

The  walk  through  the  cold  air  did  her  good,  and 
as  she  went  up  the  aisle  her  usually  pale  face  was 
delicately  flushed  and  she  was  carrying  her  slender 
but  very  womanly  figure  with  that  erectness  and 
elasticity  which  made  its  charm  in  the  days  when 
people  were  in  the  habit  of  discussing  her  prospects 
as  based  upon  her  title  to  beauty.  Her  black  dress 
and  small  black  hat  brought  out  the  finest  effects 
of  her  red  brown  hair  and  violet  eyes  and  rosy  white 
skin.  She  was,  above  all,  most  distinguished  look 
ing — in  strong  contrast  to  the  stupid  faces  and  ill- 
carried  forms  in  "  Sunday  best." 

Her  coming  caused  a  stir — that  rustling  and 
creaking  of  garments  feminine  and  starched,  which 
in  the  small  town  church  always  arouses  the  dozers 
for  something  uncommon.  She  faintly  smiled  a 
greeting  to  Mrs.  Cockburn  as  she  entered  the  pew 
where  that  old  lady  was  sitting.  She  had  just 
raised  her  head  from  the  appearance  of  prayer,  when 
Mrs.  Cockburn  whispered : 

"  Have  you  seen  young  Mr.  Wayland  ?  " 

Emily  could  not  remember  that  she  had  heard  of 
him.  But  Mrs.  Cockburn's  agitation  demanded  a 
show  of  interest,  so  she  whispered  : 

"  No — where  is  he  ?  " 

She  would  have  said,  "  Who  is  he  ? "  but  that 
would  have  called  for  a  long  explanation.  And,  as 
Mrs.  Cockburn  had  a  wide  space  between  her  upper 
front  teeth,  every  time  she  whispered  the  letter  s 
the  congregation  rustled  and  the  minister  was  dis 
concerted. 


18      A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

"There,"  whispered  Mrs.  Cockburn.  "  Straight 
across — don't  look  now,  for  he's  looking  at  us — 
straight  across  to  the  other  side  two  pews  for 
ward." 

When  they  rose  for  the  hymn,  Emily  glanced  and 
straightway  saw  the  cause  of  Mrs.  Cockburn's 
excitement.  He  was  a  commonplace-looking  young 
man  with  a  heavy  moustache.  His  hair  was  parted 
in  the  middle  and  brushed  back  carefully  and 
smoothly.  He  was  dressed  like  a  city  man,  as 
distinguished  from  the  Stoughton  man  who,  little 
as  he  owed  to  nature,  owed  even  less  to  art  as 
exploited  by  the  Stoughton  tailors. 

Young  Mr.  Wayland  would  not  have  attracted 
Emily's  attention  in  a  city  because  he  was  in  no  way 
remarkable.  But  in  Stoughton  he  seemed  to  her 
somewhat  as  an  angel  might  seem  to  a  Peri  wander 
ing  in  outer  darkness.  When  she  discovered  him 
looking  at  her  a  few  moments  later,  and  looking 
with  polite  but  interested  directness,  she  felt  herself 
colouring.  She  also  felt  pleased — and  hopeful  in 
that  fantastic  way  in  which  the  desperate  dream  of 
desperate  chances. 

After  the  service  she  stood  talking  to  Mrs. 
Cockburn,  affecting  an  unprecedented  interest  in  a 
woman  whom  she  liked  as  little — if  as  much — as  any 
in  Stoughton.  Her  back  was  toward  the  aisle  but 
she  felt  her  "  sail-ho,"  coming. 

"  He's  on  his  way  to  us,"  said  Mrs.  Cockburn 
hoarsely — she  had  been  paying  no  attention  to 
what  Emily  had  been  saying  to  her,  or  to  her  own 


SAIL  — HO!  19 

answers.  She  now  pushed  eagerly  past  Emily  to 
greet  the  young  man  at  the  door  of  the  pew. 

"  Why,  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  again,  Mr.  Way- 
land,"  she  said  with  a  cordiality  that  verged  on 
hysteria.  "  It  has  been  a  long  time.  I'm  afraid 
you've  forgotten  an  old  woman  like  me/' 

"  No,  indeed,  Mrs.  Cockburn,"  replied  Wayland, 
who  had  just  provided  himself  with  her  name.  "  It's 
been  only  four  years,  and  you've  not  changed." 

Mrs.  Cockburn  saw  his  eyes  turn  toward  Emily 
and  introduced  him.  Emily  was  not  blushing  now, 
or  apparently  interested.  She  seemed  to  be  simply 
waiting  for  her  path  to  be  cleared. 

"  I  felt  certain  it  was  you,"  began  young  Wayland, 
a  little  embarrassed.  He  made  a  gesture  as  if  to 
unbutton  his  long  coat  and  take  something  from  his 
inside  pocket,  then  seemed  to  change  his  mind. 
"  I've  a  note  of  introduction  to  you,  that  is  to  your 
mother — Mrs.  Ainslie,  you  know.  But  I  heard  that 
your  mother  was  ill.  And  I  hesitated  about  com- 
ing." 

"  Mother  is  much  better."  Emily  was  friendly, 
but  not  effusive.  "  I  am  sure  she — both  of  us — will 
be  glad  to  see  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Ainslie." 

She  smiled,  shook  hands  with  him,  gave  him  a 
fascinating  little  nod,  submitted  to  a  kiss  on  the 
cheek  from  Mrs.  Cockburn  and  went  swiftly  and 
gracefully  down  the  aisle.  Wayland  looked  after 
her  with  admiration.  He  had  been  in  Stoughton 
three  weeks  and  was  profoundly  bored. 

Mrs.  Cockburn   was  also   looking  after  her,  but 


20     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

disapprovingly.  "  A  nice  young  woman  in  some 
ways,"  she  said.  "  But  she  carries  her  head  too 
high  for  the  plain  people  here." 

"  She's  had  a  good  deal  of  trouble,  I've  heard," 
Wayland  answered,  not  committing  himself. 

The  next  morning  Mrs.  Bromfield  got  a  letter 
from  Mrs.  Ainslie.  It  was  of  unusual  length  for 
Mrs.  Ainslie,  who  was  a  bird-of-passage  that  rarely 
paused  long  enough  for  extended  communica 
tion. 

"I  never  could  get  used  to  that  big,  angular 
handwriting,"  said  Mrs.  Bromfield  to  her  daughter. 
"  Won't  you  read  it  to  me,  please  ?  " 

Emily  began  at  "  My  Dear  Frances  "  and  read 
steadily  through,  finding  in  the  postscript  four 
sentences  which  should  have  begun  the  letter  of  so 
worldly-wise  a  woman  :  "  Don't  on  any  account  let 
Emily  see  this.  You  know  how  she  acted  about 
Bob  Fulton.  She  ought  to  have  learned  better  by 
this  time,  but  I  don't  trust  her.  Be  careful  what 
you  say  to  her." 

Mrs.  Ainslie  was  urging  the  opportunity  offered 
by  the  sojourn  of  young  Wayland  in  Stoughton. 
"  Emily  will  have  a  clear  field,"  she  wrote.  "  He's 
got  money  in  his  own  right — millions  when  his 
father  dies — and  he's  a  good  deal  of  a  fool — dissi 
pated,  I  hear,  but  in  a  prudent,  business-like  way. 
It's  Emily's  chance  for  a  resurrection." 

Mrs.  Bromfield  was  made  speechless  by  the  post 
script.  Emily  sat  silent,  looking  at  the  letter  on 
the  table  before  her. 


SAIL  — HO!  21 

"  Don't  be  prejudiced  against  him,  dear,"  pleaded 
her  mother. 

"  I  imagine  it  doesn't  matter  in  the  least  what  I 
think  of  him,"  Emily  replied.  She  rose  and  left  the 
room,  sending  back  from  the  doorway  a  short,  queer 
laugh  that  made  her  mother  feel  how  shut  out  she 
was  from  what  was  going  on  in  her  daughter's  mind. 

If  she  could  have  seen  into  that  small,  ethereal- 
looking  head  she  would  have  been  astounded  at  the 
thoughts  boiling  there.  Emily  had  been  bred  in  an 
atmosphere  of  mercenary  or,  rather,  "  practical " 
ideas.  But  she  was  also  a  woman  of  sound  and 
independent  mind,  in  the  habit  of  thinking  for  her 
self,  and  with  strong  mental  and  physical  self-re 
spect.  She  would  have  hesitated  to  marry  unwisely 
for  love.  But  she  had  been  far  from  that  state  of 
self-degradation  in  which  a  young  woman  deliber 
ately  and  consciously  closes  her  heart,  locks  the 
door  and  flings  the  key  away.  Now  however,  the 
deepest  instinct  of  the  human  animal — the  instinct 
of  self-preservation — was  aroused  in  her.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  an  imperative  command  had  issued  from 
that  instinct — a  command  at  any  cost  to  flee  the 
living  death  of  Stoughton. 

******** 

That  same  afternoon  Mrs.  Bromfield  learned — 
without  having  to  ask  a  question — all  that  Stough 
ton  knew  about  the  Waylands :  They  were  the 
pride  of  the  town  and  also  its  chief  irritation.  It 
gloried  in  them  because  it  believed  that  the  report 
of  their  millions  was  as  clamourous  throughout  the 


22     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

nation  as  in  its  own  ears.  It  was  exasperated 
against  them,  because  it  believed  that  they  ought  to 
live  in  Stoughton  and  be  content  with  a  life  which 
it  thought,  or  thought  it  thought,  desirable  above 
life  in  any  other  place  whatsoever. 

So  as  long  as  Mrs.  Wayland  lived,  the  family  had 
spent  at  least  half  of  each  year  there ;  and  Stough 
ton,  satisfied  on  that  point,  disliked  them  for  other 
reasons,  first  of  all  for  being  richer  than  any  one 
else.  When  Mrs.  Wayland  died,  leaving  an  almost 
grown  daughter  and  a  son  just  going  into  trousers, 
General  Wayland  had  put  the  girl  in  school  at 
Dobbs  Ferry-on-the-Hudson,  the  boy  in  Groton, 
had  closed  the  house  and  made  New  York  his  resi 
dence.  The  girl  died  two  years  after  the  death  of 
her  mother.  The  boy  went  from  Groton  to  Har 
vard,  from  Harvard  to  his  father's  business — the 
Cotton  Cloth  Trust.  The  Wayland  homestead,  the 
most  considerable  in  Stoughton  with  its  two  wings 
built  to  the  original  square  house,  with  its  conser 
vatories  and  its  stables,  was  opened  for  but  a  few 
weeks  each  winter.  And  then  it  was  opened  only 
in  part — to  receive  the  General  on  his  annual  busi 
ness  visit  to  the  factories  of  the  Stoughton  Cotton 
Mills  Company,  the  largest  group  in  the  "  combine." 
Sometimes  he  brought  Edgar.  But  Edgar  gave  the 
young  women  of  Stoughton  no  opportunities  to 
ensnare  him.  He  kept  to  his  work  and  departed  at 
the  earliest  possible  moment.  This  year  he  had 
come  alone,  as  his  father  had  now  put  him  in  charge 
of  their  Stoughton  interests. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A  BLACK  FLAG. 

UNTIL  Wayland  saw  Emily  at  church  he 
had  no  intention  to  seize  the  opportu 
nity  which  Mrs.  Ainslie's  disinterested 
kindliness   had   made  for  him.     Ever 
since  he  left  the  restraint  of  the  "  prep." 
school    for  Harvard,  with  a  liberal  allowance    and 
absolute  freedom,  women  had  been    an  important 
factor  in  his  life  ;  and  they  were  still  second  only  to 
money-making.     But    not  such   women   as    Emily 
Bromfield. 

In  theory  he  had  the  severest  ideas  of  woman. 
Practically,  his  conception  of  woman's  sphere  was 
not  companionship  or  love  or  the  family,  not  either 
mental  or  sentimental,  but  frankly  physical.  And 
something  in  that  element  in  Emily's  personality — 
perhaps  the  warmth  of  her  beauty  of  form  in  con 
trast  to  the  coldness  of  her  beauty  of  face — made 
it  impossible  for  this  indulgent  and  self-indulgent 
young  man  to  refrain  from  seeking  her  out.  He 
was  close  with  his  money  in  every  way  except  where 
his  personal  comfort  or  amusement  was  concerned. 
There  he  was  generous  to  prodigality.  And  when 
he  learned  how  poor  the  Bromfields  were  and  how 


24     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

fiercely  discontented  Emily  was  in  her  Stoughton 
prison-cell,  he  decided  that  the  only  factor  in  the 
calculation  was  whether  or  not  on  better  acquain 
tance  his  first  up-flaring  would  persist. 

In  one  respect  Washington  society  is  unequalled. 
Nowhere  else  is  a  girl  able  so  quickly  and  at  so 
early  an  age  to  get  so  complete  an  equipment  of 
worldly  knowledge.  Emily's  three  years  under  the 
tutelage  of  cynical  Mrs.  Ainslie  had  made  her  nearly 
as  capable  to  see  through  men  as  are  acute  mar 
ried  women.  Following  the  Washington  custom  of 
her  day,  she  had  gone  about  with  men  almost  as 
freely  as  do  the  girls  of  a  Western  town.  And  the 
men  whom  she  had  thus  intimately  known  were 
not  innocent,  idealising,  deferential  Western  youths, 
but  men  of  broad  and  unscrupulous  worldliness. 
Many  of  them  were  young  diplomats,  far  from 
home,  without  any  sense  of  responsibility  in  respect 
of  the  women  of  the  country  in  which  they  were 
sojourners  of  a  day.  They  played  the  game  of 
"  man  and  woman"  adroitly  and  boldly. 

Emily  understood  Wayland  only  so  far  as  the 
clean  can  from  theoretical  experience  understand 
the  unclean.  Thus  far  she  quickly  penetrated  into 
his  intentions  toward  her  and  his  ideas  of  her.  He 
was  the  reverse  of  complex.  He  had  not  found  it 
necessary  to  employ  in  these  affairs  the  craft  he  was 
beginning  to  display  in  business,  to  the  delight  of 
his  father.  His  crude  and  candid  method  of  con 
quest  had  been  successful  hitherto.  Failure  in  this 
instance  seemed  unlikely.  And  there  were  no  male 


A    BLACK    FLAG.  25 

relatives  who  might  bring  him  to  an  uncomfortable 
accounting. 

Two  weeks  after  he  met  Emily — weeks  in  which 
he  had  seen  her  several  times — he  went  to  her  house 
for  dinner.  She  had  been  advancing  gradually, 
in  strict  accordance  with  her  plan  of  campaign. 
Wayland  had  unwittingly  disarmed  himself  and 
doubly  armed  her  by  giving  undue  weight  to  her 
appearance  of  extreme  youth  and  golden  inexper- 
ence,  and  by  overestimating  his  own  and  his 
money's  fascinations.  He  had  not  a  suspicion  that 
there  was  design  or  even  elaborate  preparation  in 
the  vision  which  embarrassed  and  fired  him  as  he 
entered  the  Bromfields'  parlour.  She  was  in  a  sim 
ple  black  dinner  gown,  which  displayed  her  arms 
and  her  rosy  white  shoulders.  And  she  had  a  small 
head  and  a  way  of  doing  her  hair  that  brought  out 
the  charm  of  every  curve  of  her  delicate  face.  In 
stead  of  looking  cold  this  evening,  she  put  into  her 
look  and  smile  a  seeming  of — well,  more  than  mere 
liking,  he  thought. 

It  happened  to  be  one  of  Mrs.  Bromfield's  good 
days,  so  she  rambled  on,  covering  Wayland's  silence. 
Occasionally  —  not  too  often — Emily  lifted  her 
glance  from  her  plate  and  gave  the  young  man  the 
full  benefit  of  her  deep,  dark,  violet  eyes.  When 
Mrs.  Bromfield  spoke  apologisingly  of  the  absence 
of  wine,  he  was  surprised  to  note  that  he  had  not 
missed  it. 

But  after  dinner,  when  he  was  alone  in  the  sitting- 
room  with  Emily,  he  regretted  that  he  had  had 


26     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

nothing  to  drink.  He  could  explain  his  timidity, 
his  inability  to  get  near  the  subject  uppermost  in  his 
mind  only  on  the  ground  that  he  had  had  no  stim 
ulus  to  his  courage  and  his  tongue.  All  that  day 
he  had  been  planning  what  he  would  say  ;  yet  as  he 
went  home  in  his  automobile,  upon  careful  review 
of  all  that  had  been  said  and  done,  he  found  that  he 
had  made  no  progress.  The  conversation  had  been 
general  and  not  for  an  instant  personal  to  her.  The 
only  personalities  had  been  his  own  rather  full 
account  of  himself,  past,  present  and  future — a  ram 
bling  recital,  the  joint  result  of  his  nervousness  and 
her  encouragement. 

"  At  least  she  understands  that  I  don't  intend  to 
marry,"  he  thought,  remembering  one  part  of  the 
conversation. 

"  There's  nothing  in  marriage  for  me,"  he  had 
said,  after  a  clumsy  paving  of  the  way. 

"  Of  course  not,"  she  had  assented.  "  I  never 
could  understand  how  a  young  man,  situated  as  you 
are,  could  be  foolish  enough  to  chain  himself." 

And  then,  as  he  remembered  with  some  satisfac 
tion,  she  added  the  only  remark  she  had  made  which 
threw  any  light  upon  her  own  feelings  and  ideas : 
"  It  would  be  as  foolish  for  you  to  marry,  as  it  would 
be  for  me  to  refuse  a  chance  to  get  out  of  this 
dreadful  place." 

As  he  reflected  on  this  he  had  no  suspicion  of 
subtlety.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  she  hardly 
deserved  credit  for  frankly  confessing  what  could 
not  be  successfully  denied  or  concealed,  or  that  she 


A    BLACK    FLAG.  27 

might  have  confessed  in  order  to  put  him  off  his 
guard,  to  make  him  think  her  guilelessly  straight 
forward. 

A  second  and  a  third  call,  a  drive  and  several  long 
walks ;  still  he  had  done  nothing  to  further  his 
scheme.  He  put  off  his  return  to  New  York,  seeing 
her  every  day,  each  time  in  a  fresh  aspect  of  beauty, 
in  a  new  mood  of  fascination.  One  night,  a  month 
after  he  met  her  at  church,  he  found  her  alone  on  the 
wide  piazza..  She  was  in  an  evening  dress,  white, 
clinging  close  to  her,  following  her  every  movement. 
He  soon  reached  his  limit  of  endurance. 

"  You  are  maddening,"  he  said  abruptly,  stretch 
ing  out  his  arms  to  seize  her.  He  thrust  her  wraps 
violently  away  from  her  throat  and  one  shoulder. 
He  was  crushing  her  against  his  chest,  was  kissing 
her  savagely. 

She  wrenched  herself  away  from  him,  panting 
with  anger,  with  repulsion.  But  he  thought  it  was 
a  return  of  his  ardour,  and  she  did  not  undeceive 
him.  "  You  mustn't !  "  she  said.  "  You  know  that 
it  is  impossible.  You  must  go.  Good-night !  " 

She  left  him  and  he,  after  waiting  uncertainly  a 
few  moments,  went  slowly  down  the  drive,  in  a  rage, 
but  a  rage  in  which  anger  and  longing  were  curi 
ously  mingled.  When  he  called  the  next  day,  she 
was  "  not  at  home."  When  he  called  again  she  could 
not  come  down,  she  must  stay  beside  her  mother, 
who  had  had  another  attack,  so  the  servant 
explained  in  a  stammering,  unconvincing  manner. 
He  wrote  that  he  wished  to  see  her  to  say  good-bye 


28      A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

as  he  was  leaving  the  next  day.  Then  he  called  and 
she  came  into  the  parlour — "  just  for  an  instant." 
She  was  wearing  a  loose  gown,  open  at  the  throat, 
with  sleeves  falling  away  from  her  arms.  Her 
small  feet  were  thrust  into  a  pair  of  high-heeled  red 
slippers  and  her  stockings  had  openwork  over  the 
ankles.  She  seemed  so  worried  about  her  mother 
that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  re-open  the  one 
subject  and  resume  progress,  as  he  had  hoped  to  do. 
But  it  was  not  impossible  for  him  to  think.  And 
Emily,  anxiously  watching  him  from  behind  her 
secure  entrenchments,  noted  that  he  was  thinking 
as  she  wished  and  hoped.  His  looks,  his  voice 
encouraged  her  to  play  her  game,  her  only  possible 
game,  courageously  to  the  last  card. 

"  If  he  doesn't  come  back,"  she  thought,  "  at 
least  I've  done  my  best  And  I  think  he  will 
come." 

She  sent  him  away  regretfully,  but  immediately, 
standing  two  steps  up  the  stairway  in  a  final  effective 
pose.  He  set  his  teeth  together  and  took  the  train  for 
NewYork.  There  he  outdid  all  his  previous  impulses 
of  extravagant  generosity  with  himself,  but  he  could 
not  drive  her  from  his  mind.  Those  who  formerly 
amused  him,  now  seemed  vulgar,  silly,  and  stale. 
They  made  her  live  the  more  vividly  in  his  imagina 
tion.  Business  gave  him  no  relief.  At  his  office  his 
mind  wandered  to  her,  and  the  memory  of  that  stolen 
kiss  made  his  nerves  quiver  and  hot  flushes  course 
over  and  through  him.  At  the  end  of  three  weeks, 
he  returned  to  Stoughton.  "  I've  let  myself  go 


A    BLACK    FLAG.  29 

crazy,"  he  thought,  "  I'll  see  her  again  and  convince 
myself  that  I'm  a  fool." 

As  he  neared  her  house,  his  mind  became  more  at 
ease.  When  he  rang  the  bell  he  was  laughing  at 
himself  for  having  got  into  such  a  frenzy  over 
"  nothing  but  a  woman  like  the  rest  of  'em."  But 
as  soon  as  he  saw  her,  he  was  drunk  again. 

"  I  love  you,"  he  stammered.  "  I  can't  do  with 
out  you.  Will  you — will  you  marry  me,  Emily  ?  " 

There  was  no  triumph  either  in  her  face  or  in  her 
mind.  She  was  hearing  the  hammer  smash  in  the 
thick  walls  of  her  prison,  but  she  shrank  from  the 
sound.  As  she  looked  at  his  commonplace,  heavy- 
featured  face  ;  as  she  listened  to  his  monotonous 
voice,  with  its  hint  of  tyranny  and  temper  ;  as  she 
felt  his  greedy  eyes  and  hot,  trembling  ringers  ; — a 
revulsion  swept  over  her  and  left  her  sick  with 
disgust — disgust  for  her  despicable  self,  loathing  for 
him  and  for  his  feeling  for  her — his  "  love." 

"  How  can  I  ?  "  she  thought,  turning  away  to  hide 
her  expression  from  him.  "  How  can  I  ?  And  yet, 
how  can  I  refuse  ?  " 

"  I  must  have  until — until  this  evening,"  she  said 
in  a  low  voice  and  with  an  effort.  "  I — I  thought 
you  had  gone — for  good  and  all—and  I  tried  to  put 
you  out  of  my  thoughts." 

She  was  standing  near  him  and  he  crushed  her  in 
his  arms.  "You  must,  you  must,"  he  exclaimed. 
"  I  must  have  you." 

She  let  him  kiss  her  once,  then  pushed  him  away, 
hiding  her  face  in  no  mere  pretence  of  modesty  and 


30      A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

maidenly  repulsion.  "  This  evening,"  she  said, 
almost  flying  from  him. 

She  paused  at  the  door  of  her  mother's  sitting- 
room.  From  it  came  the  odor  of  drugs,  and  in  it 
were  all  the  evidences  of  the  tedious  companionship 
of  her  poverty-stricken  prison  life — the  invalid  chair 
with  its  upholstery  tattering ;  the  worn  carpet ;  the 
wall  paper  stained,  and  in  one  corner  giving  way  be 
cause  of  a  leak  which  they  had  no  money  to  repair  ; 
the  table  with  its  litter  of  bottles,  of  drug-boxes,  of 
patent-medicine  advertisements  and  trashy  novels ; 
in  the  bed  the  hypochondriac  herself,  old,  yellow, 
fat  in  an  unhealthy  way,  with  her  empty,  childish, 
peevish  face. 

Emily  did  not  enter,  but  went  on  to  her  own 
room — bare,  cheerless,  proofs  of  poverty  and  im 
pending  rags  and  patches  threatening  to  obtrude. 
She  looked  out  through  the  trees  at  the  glimpses 
of  the  town — every  beat  of  the  pulse  of  her  youth 
was  a  sullen  and  hateful  protest  against  it.  Beyond 
were  the  tall  chimneys  of  the  mills,  with  the  black 
clouds  from  them  smutching  the  sky — there  lived 
the  work-people,  the  boredom  of  the  town  driving 
them  to  brutal  dissipation. 

"  I  must !  I  must ! "  she  said,  between  her  set 
teeth,  then  sank  down  in  the  window  seat  and 
buried  her  face  in  her  arms. 

That  evening  she  accepted  him,  and  the  next 
morning  her  mother  announced  the  engagement  to 
the  first  caller. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  PENITENT  PIRATE. 

WAYLAND  had  the  commercial  instinct 
too  strongly  developed  not  to  fear 
that  he  was  paying  an  exorbitant 
price  for  a  fancy  which  would  prob 
ably  be  as  passing  as  it  was  powerful. 
Whenever  Emily  was  not  before  his  eyes  he  was 
pushing  the  bill  angrily  aside.  But  in  the  stubborn 
ness  of  self-indulgence  he  refused  to  permit  himself 
to  see  that  he  was  making  a  fool  of  himself.  If  she 
had  not  gauged  him  accurately,  or,  rather,  if  she 
had  not  mentally  and  visibly  shrunk  even  from  the 
contact  with  him  necessary  to  shaking  hands,  he 
might  quickly  have  come  to  his  cool-blooded  senses. 
But  their  engagement  made  no  change  in  their 
relations.  Her  mother's  illness  helped  her  to  avoid 
seeing  him  for  more  than  a  few  minutes  at  a  time.' 
Her  affectation  of  an  extreme  of  prudery — with 
inclination  and  policy  reinforcing  each  the  other — 
made  her  continue  to  keep  herself  as  elusive,  as 
tantalising  to  him  as  she  had  been  at  that  dinner 
when  he  "  fell  head  over  heels  in  love — "  so  he 
described  it  to  her.  And  he  thoroughly  approved 


32     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

of  her  primness.  For,  to  him  there  were  only  two 
classes  of  women — good  women,  those  who  knew 
nothing ;  bad  women,  those  who  knew  and,  know 
ing,  must  of  necessity  feel  and  act  as  coarsely 
as  himself.  The  most  of  the  time  which  he  be 
lieved  she  was  devoting  to  her  mother,  she  was 
passing  in  her  room  in  arguing  the  two  questions : 
"  How  can  I  give  him  up  ?  How  can  I  marry 
him?" 

Her  acute  intelligence  did  not  permit  her  to 
deceive  herself.  She  knew  with  just  what  kind  of 
man  she  was  dealing,  knew  she  would  continue  to 
loathe  him  after  she  had  married  him,  knew  her 
reason  for  marrying  him  was  as  base,  if  not  baser, 
than  his  reason  for  marrying  her.  "  He  is  at  least  a 
purchaser,"  she  said  to  herself  contemptuously, 
"while  I  am  merely  the  thing  purchased."  And 
her  conduct  was  condemned  by  her  whole  nature 
except  the  one  potent  instinct  of  feminine  laziness. 
"If  only  I  had  been  taught  to  work,"  she  thought 
"  or  taught  not  to  look  down  upon  work  !  Yet  now 
could  it  be  so  low  as  this  ?  " 

She  felt  that  she  might  not  thus  degrade  herself 
if  she  had  some  one  to  consult,  some  one  to  encour 
age  her  to  recover  and  retain  her  self-respect.  But 
who  was  there  ?  She  laughed  at  the  idea  of  consult 
ing  her  mother — that  never  strong  mind,  now  en 
feebled  to  imbecility  by  drugs  and  novels.  And 
even  if  she  had  had  a  capable  mother,  what  would 
have  been  her  advice  ?  Would  it  not  have  been  to 
be  "sensible"  and  "practical"  and  not  fling  away 


THE    PENITENT    PIRATE.    33 

a  brilliant  "  chance  " — wealth  and  distinction  for  her- 
self,  proper  surroundings  and  education  for  the  chil 
dren  that  were  sure  to  come?  And  would  not  that 
advice  be  sound  ? 

Only  arguments  of  "  sentimentality,"  of  super- 
sensitiveness,  appeared  in  opposition  to  the  urgings 
of  conventional  everyday  practice.  And  was  not 
Stoughton  worse  than  Wayland?  Could  it  possi 
bly  be  more  provocative  of  all  that  was  base  in  her 
to  live  with  Stoughton  than  to  live  with  Wayland  ? 
Wayland  would  be  one  of  a  great  many  elements 
in  her  environment  after  the  few  first  weeks  of 
marriage.  If  she  accepted  the  alternative,  it  would 
be  her  whole  environment,  in  all  probability  for  the 
rest  of  her  life. 

A  month  after  the  announcement  of  the  engage 
ment,  her  mother  sank  into  a  stupor  and,  toward 
the  end  of  the  fifth  day,  died.  Just  as  her  father 
had  been  missed  and  mourned  more  than  many  a 
father  who  deserved  and  received  love,  so  now  her 
mother,  never  deserving  nor  trying  to  deserve  love, 
was  missed  and  mourned  as  are  few  mothers  who 
have  sacrificed  everything  to  their  children.  This 
fretful,  self-absorbed  invalid  was  all  that  Emily  had 
in  the  world. 

Wayland  was  startled  when  Emily  threw  herself 
into  his  arms  and  clinging  close  to  him  sobbed  and 
wept  on  his  shoulder.  Sorrow  often  quickens  into 
sympathy  the  meanest  natures.  The  bereaved  are 
amazed  to  find  the  world  so  strangely  gentle  for  the 
time.  And  Wayland  for  the  moment  was  lifted 


34     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

above  himself.  There  were  tenderness,  affection  in 
his  voice  and  in  the  clasp  of  his  arms  about  her. 

"  I  have  no  one,  no  one,"  she  moaned.  "  Oh,  my 
good  mother,  my  dear  little  mother!  Ah,  God, 
what  shall  I  do?" 

"  We  will  bear  it  together,  dear,"  he  whispered. 
"  My  dear,  my  beautiful  girl."  And  for  the  first 
time  he  genuinely  respected  a  woman,  felt  the 
promptings  of  the  honest  instincts  of  manliness. 

His  change  had  a  profound  effect  upon  the  young 
girl  in  her  mood  of  loneliness  and  dependence.  She 
reproached  herself  for  having  thought  so  ill  of  him, 
for  having  underrated  his  character.  With  quick 
generosity  she  was  at  the  opposite  extreme ;  she 
treated  him  with  a  friendliness  which  enabled  him 
to  see  her  as  she  really  was — in  all  respects  except 
the  one  where  desperation  was  driving  her  to  action 
abhorrent  to  her  normal  self. 

As  her  sweetness  and  high-minded  intelligence 
unfolded  before  his  surprised  eyes,  he  began  to 
think  of  her  as  a  human  being  instead  of  thinking 
only  of  the  effect  of  her  beauty  upon  his  senses. 
He  grew  to  like  her,  to  regard  her  as  an  ideal 
woman  for  a  wife.  But — he  did  not  want  a  wife. 
And  as  the  new  feeling  developed,  the  old  feeling 
died  away. 

Emily  had  gained  a  friend.  But  she  had  lost  a 
lover. 

Two  weeks  after  her  mother's  funeral,  Wayland 
kissed  her  good-night  as  calmly  as  if  he  had  been 
her  brother.  At  the  gate  he  paused  and  looked 


THE    PENITENT    PIRATE.    35 

back  at  the  house,  already  dark  except  in  one 
second-story  room,  where  Emily's  aunt  was  waiting 
up  for  her.  "  I  am  not  worthy  of  her,"  he  said  to 
himself.  "  I  am  not  fit  to  marry  her.  I  should  be 
miserable  trying  to  live  up  to  such  a  woman.  I 
must  get  out  of  it." 

But  how?  He  pretended  to  himself  that  he  was 
hesitating  because  of  his  regard  for  her  and  her  need 
for  him.  In  fact  his  hesitation  arose  from  doubt 
about  the  way  to  escape  from  this  most  uncongenial 
atmosphere  without  betraying  to  her  what  a  dis 
honourable  creature  he  was.  And  the  more  he 
studied  the  difficulty,  the  more  formidable  it 
seemed.  This  however  only  increased  his  eager 
ness  to  escape,  his  alarm  at  the  prospect  of  being 
tied  for  life  to  moral  and  mental  superiority. 

He  hoped  she  would  give  him  an  excuse.  But 
as 'she  now  liked  him,  she  was  the  better  able  to 
conceal  the  fact  that  she  did  not  love  him  ;  and  had 
he  been  far  less  unskilled  in  reading  feminine  char 
acter,  he  would  still  have  been  deceived.  Emily 
was  deceiving  herself — almost. 

As  soon  as  he  felt  that  he  could  leave  with  de 
cency,  he  told  her  he  must  go  to  New  York.  She 
had  been  noting  that  he  no  longer  spoke  of  their 
marriage,  no  longer  urged  that  it  be  hastened.  But 
it  occurred  to  her  that  he  might  be  restrained  by  the 
fear  of  distressing  her  when  her  mother  had  been 
dead  so  short  a  time ;  and  this  seemed  a  satisfactory 
explanation.  Three  days  after  he  reached  New- 
York  he  sent  this  letter— the  result  of  an  effort  that 


36      A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

half-filled  the  scrap-basket  in  a  quiet  corner  of  the 
writing-room  of  his  club  : 


I  have  been  thinking  over  our  engagement  and  I  am  con 
vinced  that  when  you  know  my  mind,  you  will  wish  it  to  come 
to  an  end.  I  am  not  worthy  of  you.  You  are  mistaken  in  me. 
I  could  not  make  you  happy.  You  are  too  far  above  me  in 
every  way.  It  would  be  spoiling  your  whole  life  to  marry  you 
under  such  false  pretences.  Looking  back  over  our  acquain 
tance,  I  am  ashamed  of  the  motives  which  led  me  to  make  this 
engagement.  Forgive  me  for  being  so  abrupt,  but  I  think  the 
truth  is  best. 

"  Pretty  raw,"  he  thought,  as  he  read  it  over. 
"  But  it's  the  truth  and  the  truth  is  best  in  this  case. 
I  can't  afford  to  trifle.  And — what  can  she  do  ?  " 

When  Emily  finished  reading  the  letter,  she  was 
crushed.  Her  pride,  her  vanity,  her  future — all 
stabbed  in  the  vitals.  Just  when  she  thought  her 
self  most  secure,  she  was  overthrown  and  trampled. 
She  could  see  Stoughton  gloating  over  her — who 
would  have  thought  that  Stoughton  could  ever  reach 
and  touch  her?  She  could  see  herself  pinioned 
there,  or  in  some  similiar  Castle  Despair,  for  life. 

To  be  outwitted  by  such  a  man — and  how? 
She  could  not  explain  it.  Her  experience  of  ways 
masculine  had  not  been  intimate  enough  to  give  her 
a  clue  to  the  subtle  cause  of  Wayland's  changed  at 
titude.  She  paced  her  room  in  fury,  denouncing 
him  as  a  cur,  a  traitor,  a  despicable  creature,  too 
vile  and  low  for  adequate  portrayal  in  any  known 
medium  of  expression.  She  went  over  scheme  after 


THE    PENITENT    PIRATE.    37 

scheme  for  holding  him  to  his  promise,  for  bringing 
him  back — some  of  them  schemes  which  made  her 
blush  when  she  recalled  them  in  after  years.  She 
wrote  a  score  of  letters — long,  short ;  bitter,  plead 
ing  ;  some  appealing  to  his  honour,  some  filled  with 
hypocritical  expressions  of  love  and  veiling  a  vague 
threat  which  she  hoped  might  terrify  him,  though 
she  knew  it  was  meaningless.  But  she  tore  them 
up.  And  after  tossing  much  and  sleeping  a  little 
she  sent  this  answer  : 


DEAR  EDGAR: 

Certainly,  if  you  feel  that  way.  But  you  mustn't  let  any 
nervousness  about  the  past  interfere  with  our  friendship.  That 
has  become  very  dear  to  me.  The  only  ill  luck  I  wish  you  is 
that  you'll  have  to  come  to  Stoughton  soon.  I  won't  ask 
you  to  write  to  me,  because  I  know  you're  not  fond  of  writing 
letters — and  nothing  happens  here  that  any  one  would  care  to 
hear  about.  My  aunt  is  staying  with  me  for  a  few  months  at 
least.  Until  I  see  you, 

EMILY. 

"  It's  of  no  use  to  make  a  row,"  she  thought. 
"If  anything  can  bring  him  back,  certainly  it  is  not 
tears  or  reproaches  or  threats.  And  how  appeal  to 
the  honour  of  a  man  who  has  no  honour?  " 
1  Her  mind  was  clear  enough,  but  her  feelings  were 
in  a  ferment.  She  knew  that  it  was  in  some  way 
her  fault  that  she  had  lost  him.  "  And  I  deserved 
to  lose  him,"  she  admitted.  '•  But  that  doesn't  ex 
cuse  him  or  help  me." 

He  answered  promptly  : 


38      A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND  : 

How  like  you  your  letter  was.  If  I  did  not  know  so  well 
how  unworthy  of  you  I  am,  how  I  would  plead  for  the  honour 
of  having  such  a  woman  as  my  wife.  I  wish  I  could  look  for 
ward  to  seeing  you  soon — but  I'm  going  abroad  on  Saturday 
and  I  shan't  return  for  some  time.  As  soon  as  I  do,  I'll 
let  you  know.  It  is  good  of  you  to  offer  me  your  friendship. 
I  am  proud  to  accept  it.  If  you  ever  need  a  friend,  you  will 
find  him  in 

Yours  faithfully, 

EDGAR  WAYLAND. 

The  expression  of  Emily's  face  was  anything  but 
good,  it  was  the  reverse  of  "  lady-like,"  as  she  read 
this  death-warrant  of  her  last  hope.  "  The  coward  !  " 
she  exclaimed,  and,  as  her  eyes  fell  on  the  satirical 
formality,  "  Yours  faithfully,"  she  uttered  an  ugly 
laugh  which  would  have  given  a  severe  shock  to 
Wayland's  new  ideas  of  her. 

"  Fooled— jilted— left-for  dead,"  she  thought,  de 
spair  closing  in,  thick  and  black.  And  she  crawled 
into  bed,  to  lie  sleepless  and  tearless,  her  eyes  burn 
ing. 


CHAPTER  VI. 
A  CHANGED   CRUSOE. 

IN  the  third  night  Emily  had  ten  hours  of  the 
sleep  of  exhausted  youth.     She  awoke  in  the 
mood  of   the  brilliant  July  morning   which 
was  sending  sunshine  and  song  and  the  odour 
of  honeysuckles  through  the  rifts  in  the  lat 
tices  of  her  shutters.     She  was  restored  to  her  nor 
mal  self.     She  was  able  to  examine  her  affairs  calmly 
in  the  light  of  her  keen  and  courageous  mind. 

Ever  since  she  had  been  old  enough  to  be  of  act 
ive  use,  she  had  had  the  training  of  responsibility 
— responsibility  not  only  for  herself,  but  also  for  her 
mother  and  the  household.  She  had  had  the  duties 
of  both  woman  and  man  forced  upon  her  and  so  had 
developed  capacity  and  self-reliance.  She  had  read 
and  experienced  and  thought  perhaps  beyond  the 
average  for  girls  of  her  age  and  breeding.  Undoubt 
edly  she  had  read  and  thought  more  than  most 
girls  who  are,  or  fancy  they  are,  physically  attractive. 
Her  father's  caustic  contempt  for  shallow  culture, 
for  ignorance  thinly  disguised  by  good  manners,  had 
been  his  one  strong  influence  on  her. 

"  All  my  own  fault,"  she  was  saying  to  herself 
now,  as  she  lay  propped  on  her  elbow  among  her 
pillows.  "  It  was  a  base  plan,  unworthy  of  me.  I 


40      A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

ought  to  be  glad  that  the  punishment  was  not  worse. 
The  only  creditable  thing  about  it  is  that  I  played 
the  game  so  badly  that  I  lost."  And  then  she  smiled, 
wondering  how  much  of  her  new  virtue  was  real 
and  how  much  was  mere  making  the  best  of  a 
disastrous  defeat. 

Why  had  she  lost  ?  What  was  the  false  move  ? 
She  could  not  answer,  but  she  felt  that  it  was 
through  ignorance  of  some  trick  which  a  worse 
woman  would  have  known. 

"  Never  again,  never  again,"  she  thought,  "  will 
I  take  that  road.  What  I  get  I  must  get  by  direct 
means.  Either  I'm  not  crafty  enough  or  not  mean 
enough  to  win  in  the  other  way." 

She  was  singing  as  she  went  downstairs  to  join 
her  aunt.  The  old  woman,  her  father's  sister  who 
had  never  married,  was  knitting  in  the  shady  cor 
ner  of  the  front  porch,  screened  from  the  sun  by  a 
great  overhanging  tree,  and  from  the  drive  and  the 
road  beyond,  by  the  curtain  of  honeysuckles  and 
climbing  roses.  As  Emily  came  into  view,  she 
dropped  the  knitting  and  looked  at  her  with  dis 
approval  upon  her  thin  old  face. 

"  But  why,  auntie  ?  "  said  the  girl,  answering  the 
look.  "  I  feel  like  singing.  I  feel  so  young  and 
well  and — hopeful.  You  don't  wish  me  to  play  the 
hypocrite  and  look  glum  and  sad  ?  Besides,  the 
battle  must  begin  soon,  and  good  spirits  may  be 
half  of  it." 

Her  aunt  sighed  and  looked  at  her  with  the 
unoffending  pity  of  sympathy.  "  Perhaps  you're 


A    CHANGED    CRUSOE.        41 

right,  Emmy,"  she  said.  "  God  knows,  life  is  cruel 
enough  without  our  fighting  to  prolong  its  miseries. 
And  it  does  seem  as  if  you'd  had  more  than  your 
share  of  them  thus  far."  She  was  admiring  her 
beautiful  niece  and  thinking  how  ill  that  fragile  fine 
ness  seemed  fitted  for  the  struggle  which  there 
seemed  no  way  of  averting.  "  You're  almost 
twenty-one,"  she  said  aloud.  "  You  ought  to  have 
had  a  good  hnsband  and  everything  you  wanted  by 
this  time." 

Emily  winced  at  this  unconscious  stab  into  the 
unhealed  wound.  "  Isn't  there  anything  in  life  for  a 
woman  on  her  own  account  ?  "  she  asked  impatiently. 
"Is  her  only  hope  through  some  man?  Isn't  it 
possible  for  her  to  make  her  own  happiness,  work 
out  her  own  salvation  ?  Must  she  wait  until  a  man 
condescends  to  ask  her  to  marry  him  ?  " 

"I'd  like  to  say  no,"  replied  her  aunt,  "but  I 
can't.  As  the  world  is  made  now,  a  woman's 
happiness  comes  through  home  and  children.  And 
that  means  a  husband.  Even  if  her  idea  of  happi 
ness  were  not  home  and  children,  still  she's  got  to 
have  a  husband." 

"But  why?  Why  do  you  say  *  as  the  world  is 
made  now?  '  Aren't  there  thousands,  tens  of  thou 
sands  of  women  who  make  their  own  lives,  working 
in  all  sorts  of  ways — from  teaching  school  to  prac 
tising  medicine  or  law  or  writing  or  acting?" 

"  Yes — but  they're  still  only  women.  They  may 
lie  about  it.  But  with  a  few  exceptions,  abnormal 
women,  who  are  hardly  women  at  all,  they're  simply 


42      A    WOMAN    VENTURES 

filling  a  gap  in  their  lives — perhaps  trying  to  find 
husbands  in  unusual  ways.  Everybody  must  have 
an  object,  to  be  in  the  least  happy.  And  children 
is  the  object  the  world  has  fixed  for  us  women. 
Whether  we're  conscious  of  it  or  not,  we  pursue  it. 
And  if  we're  thwarted  in  it,  we're — well,  we're  not 
happy." 

The  old  woman  was  staring  out  sadly  into  space. 
The  cheerfulness  had  faded  from  the  girl's  face. 
But  presently  she  shook  her  head  defiantly  and 
broke  the  silence. 

"  I  -refuse  to  believe  it,"  she  said  with  energy. 
"  Oh,  I  don't  deny  that  I  feel  just  as  you  describe. 
And  why  shouldn't  I  ?  Why  shouldn't  we  all  ? 
Aren't  we  brought  up  that  way  ?  Are  we  ever  taught 
anything  else?  It's  the  way  women  have  been 
trained  from  the  beginning.  But — that  doesn't 
make  it  so." 

"  No,  it  doesn't,"  replied  her  aunt.  "  And  prob 
ably  it  isn't  so.  But  don't  make  the  mistake,  child, 
of  thinking  that  the  world  is  run  on  a  basis  of 
what's  so.  It  isn't.  It's  run  on  a  basis  of  think-so 
and  believe-so  and  hope-so." 

Emily  stood  up  beside  her  aunt  and  looked  out 
absently  through  the  leaves.  "  I  don't  care  what 
any  one  says  or  what  every  one  says,"  she  said. 
"  I  don't  say  that  I  don't  want  love  and  home  and 
all  that.  I  do  want  it.  But  I  think  I  want  it  as  a 
man  wants  it.  I  want  it  as  my  very  own,  not  as  the 
property  of  some  man  which  he  graciously  or 
grudgingly  permits  me  to  share.  And  I  purpose  to 


A    CHANGED    CRUSOE.        43 

try  to  make  my  own  life.  If  I  marry,  it  will  be  as 
a  man  marries — when  I'm  pleased  and  not  before. 
No,  don't  look  frightened,  auntie.  I'm  not  going 
to  do  anything  shocking.  I  understand  that  the 
game  must  be  played  according  to  the  rules,  or  one 
is  likely  to  be  excluded." 

"  Well,  youVe  got  to  make  your  living — at  least 
for  the  present/'  replied  her  aunt.  "  And  it  doesn't 
matter  much  what  your  theory  is.  The  question 
is,  what  can  you  do  ;  and  if  you  can  do  something, 
how  are  you  to  get  the  chance  to  do  it.  I  can't 
advise  you.  I'm  only  a  useless  old  maid — waiting  in 
a  corner  for  death,  already  forgotten." 

Emily  put  on  an  expression  of  amused  disbelief 
that  was  more  flattering  than  true,  and  full  of 
vague  but  potent  consolation.  "  I  don't  think  I 
need  advice,"  she  said,  "  so  much  as  I  need  courage. 
And  there  you  can  help  me,  auntie  dear — can,  and 
will." 

"  I  ?  "  The  old  woman  was  pleased  and  touched. 
"  What  can  I  say  or  do  ?  I  can  only  tell  you  what 
you  already  know — though  I  must  say  I  didn't  when 
I  was  your  age — can  only  tell  you  that  there's 
nothing  to  be  afraid  of  in  all  this  wide  world  except 
false  pride." 

She  looked  thoughtfully  at  her  knitting,  then 
anxiously  at  the  resolute  face  of  her  niece.  "  In 
our  country,"  she  went  on,  "  it's  been  certain  from 
the  start,  it  seems  to  me,  that  what  you've  been 
saying  would  be  the  gospel  of  the  women  as  well 
as  of  the  men.  But  it  takes  women  a  loner  time 


44      A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

to  get  over  false  pride.  You  are  going  to  be  a 
working-woman.  If  only  you  can  see  that  all  hon 
est  work  is  honourable  !  If  only  you  can  remember 
that  your  life  must  be  made  by  yourself,  that  to 
look  timidly  at  others  and  dread  what  they  will  say 
about  you  is  cowardly  and  contemptible !  How  I 
wish  I  had  your  chance  !  How  I  wish  I'd  had  the 
courage  to  take  my  own  chance  !  " 


CHAPTER  VII. 

BACK  TO  THE  MAINLAND. 

WITHIN  a  month  old    Miss  Bromfield 
was  again  with  her  sister  at  Stock- 
bridge  ;  the  house  in  Stoughton  was 
sold  ;  there  were  twenty-two  hundred 
dollars    to    Emily's    credit    in    the 
Stoughton  National  Bank — her  whole   capital   ex 
cept  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  which  she  had  with 
her  ;  and  she  herself  was  standing  at  the  exit  from 
the  Grand  Central  Station  in  New  York  City,  facing 
with  a  sinking  heart  and  frightened  eyes  the  row  of 
squalid  cabs  and  clamourous  cabmen.     One  of  these 
took  her  to  the  boarding-house  in  East  Thirty-first 
Street   near   Madison   Avenue   where   her    friend, 
Theresa  Duncan,  lived. 

"  Of  course  there's  a  chance,"  Theresa  had  written. 
"  Come  straight  on  here.  Something  is  sure  to 
turn  up.  And  there's  nothing  like  being  on  the 
spot." 

Of  the  women  of  her  acquaintance  who  made 
their  own  living,  Theresa  alone  was  in  an  indepen 
dent  position — with  her  time  her  own,  and  with  no 
suggestion  of  domestic  service  in  her  employment. 
They  had  been  friends  at  school  and  had  kept  up 
the  friendship  by  correspondence.  Before  Mr. 


46      A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

Bromfield  died,  Theresa's  father  had  been  swept 
under  by  a  Wall  Street  tidal  wave  and,  when  it  re 
ceded,  had  been  found  on  the  shore  with  empty 
pockets  and  a  bullet  in  his  brain.  Emily  wrote  to 
her  at  once,  but  the  answer  did  not  come  until  six 
months  had  passed.  Then  Theresa  announced 
that  she  was  established  in  a  small  but  sufficient 
commission  business.  "  I  shop  for  busy  New  York 
women  and  have  a  growing  out-of-town  trade,"  she 
wrote.  "  And  I  am  almost  happy.  It  is  fine  to  be 
free." 

At  the  boarding-house  Emily  looked  twice  at  the 
number  to  assure  herself  that  she  was  not  mistaken. 
She  had  expected  nothing  so  imposing  as  this  man 
sion-like  exterior.  When  a  man-servant  opened  the 
door  and  she  saw  high  ceilings  and  heavy  mould 
ings,  she  inquired  for  Miss  Duncan  in  the  tone  of 
one  who  is  sure  there  is  a  mistake.  But  before  the 
man  answered,  her  illusion  vanished.  He  was  a 
slattern  creature  in  a  greasy  evening  coat,  a  day 
waistcoat,  a  stained  red  satin  tie,  its  flaming  colour 
fighting  for  precedence  with  a  huge  blue  glass  scarf 
pin.  And  Emily  now  saw  that  the  splendours  of 
what  had  been  a  fine  house  in  New  York's  modest 
days  were  overlaid  with  cheap  trappings  and  with 
grime  and  stain  and  other  evidences  of  slovenly 
housekeeping. 

The  air  was  saturated  with  an  odour  of  inferior 
food,  cooking  in  poor  butter  and  worse  lard.  It 
was  one  of  the  Houses  of  the  Seem-to-be.  The 
carpets  seemed  to  be  Turkish  or  Persian,  but  were 


BACK    TO    THE    MAINLAND.  47 

made  in  Newark  and  made  cheaply.  The  furniture 
seemed  to  be  French,  but  was  Fourteenth  street. 
The  paper  seemed  to  be  brocade,  but  was  from  the 
masses  of  poor  stuff  tossed  upon  the  counters  of 
second-class  department  stores  for  the  fumblings 
of  noisome  bargain-day  crowds.  The  paintings 
seemed  to  be  pictures,  but  were  such  daubs  as  the 
Nassau  street  dealers  auction  off  to  swindle-seeking 
clerks  at  the  lunch  hour.  In  a  corner  of  the 
"  salon "  stood  what  seemed-to-be  a  cabinet  for 
bric-a-brac  but  was  a  dilapidated  folding  bed. 

"Dare  I  sit?"  thought  Emily.  "What  seems 
to  be  a  chair  may  really  be  some  hollow  sham  that 
will  collapse  at  the  touch." 

"  A  vile  hole,  isn't  it  ?  "  was  one  of  Theresa's  first 
remarks,  after  an  enthusiastic  greeting  and  a  com 
petent  apology  for  not  meeting  her  at  the  station. 
"  We  may  be  able  to  take  a  flat  together.  I  would 
have  done  it  long  ago,  if  I'd  not  been  alone." 

"  Yes,"  said  Emily,  "  and  I  may  persuade  Aunt 
Ann  to  come  and  live  with  us  as  chaperon." 

"  Oh,  that  will  be  so  nice,"  replied  Theresa  in  a 
doubtful,  reluctant  tone,  with  a  quizzical  look  in 
her  handsome  brown  eyes.  "  If  there  is  a  prime 
necessity  for  a  working-woman,  it  is  a  chaperon." 

"You're  laughing  at  me,"  said  Emily,  flushing 
but  good-humoured.  "  I  meant  simply  that  my 
aunt  could  look  after  the  flat  while  we're  away. 
You  don't  know  her.  She'd  never  bother  us. 
She  understands  how  to  mind  her  own  business." 

"  Well,  the  flat  and  the  chaperon  are  still  in  the 


48      A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

future.  The  first  question  is,  what  are  you  going 
into  ?  You  used  to  write  such  good  essays  at 
school  and  your  letters  are  clever.  Why  not  news 
paper  work  ?  " 

"But  what  could  I  do?" 

"  Get  a  trial  as  a  reporter." 

Before  Emily's  mind  came  a  vision  of  a  ball  she 
had  attended  in  Washington  less  than  two  years 
before — the  lofty  entrance,  the  fashionable  guests 
incrowding  from  their  carriages ;  at  one  side,  a 
dingy  group,  two  seedy-looking  men  and  a  homely, 
dowdy  woman,  taking  notes  of  names  and  costumes. 
She  shuddered. 

Theresa  noted  the  shudder,  and  laid  her  hand  on 
Emily's  arm.  "  You  must  drop  that,  my  dear — 
you  must,  must,  must." 

Emily  coloured.  "  I  will,  will,  will,"  she  said  with 
a  guilty  laugh.  "  But,  Theresa,  you  understand, 
don't  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  remember.  But  I've  left  all  that  be- 
hind — at  least  I've  tried  to.  You've  got  to  be  just 
like  a  man  when  he  makes  the  start.  As  Mr.  Mar 
lowe  was  saying  the  other  night,  it's  no  worse  than 
being  a  bank  messenger  and  presenting  notes  to 
men  who  can't  pay  ;  or  being  a  lawyer's  clerk  and 
handing  people  dreadful  papers  that  they  throw  in 
your  face.  No  matter  where  you  start  there  are 
hard  knocks.  And " 

"  I  know  it,  I  expect  it,  and  I'm  not  sorry  that  it 
is  so.  It's  part  of  the  price  of  learning  to  live.  I'm 
not  complaining." 


BACK    TO    THE    MAINLAND.   49 

"  I  hope  you'll  be  able  to  say  that  a  year  from 
now.  I  confess  I  did,  and  do,  complain.  I  can't 
get  over  my  resentment  at  the  injustice  of  it.  Why 
doesn't  everybody  see  that  we're  all  in  the  same 
boat  and  that  snubbing  and  sneering  only  make  it 
harder  all  round  ?  " 

Emily  had  expected  to  find  the  Theresa  of  school 
days  developed  along  the  lines  that  were  promising. 
Instead,  she  found  the  Theresa  of  school  days 
changed  chiefly  by  deterioration.  She  was  undeni 
ably  attractive — a  handsome,  magnetic,  shrewd 
young  woman  full  of  animal  spirits.  But  her  dress 
was  just  beyond  the  line  of  good  taste,  and  on  in 
spection  revealed  tawdriness  and  lapses  ;  her  man 
ners  were  a  little  too  pronounced  in  their  freedom ; 
her  speech  barely  escaped  license.  Her  effort  to 
show  hostility  to  conventions  was  impudent  rather 
than  courageous.  Worst  of  all,  she  had  lost  that 
finish  of  refinement  which  makes  merits  shine  and 
dims  even  serious  defects.  She  had  cultivated  a 
shallow  cynicism — of  the  concert  hall  and  the 
"  society  "  play.  It  took  all  the  brightness  of  her 
eyes,  all  the  brilliance  of  her  teeth,  all  her  physical 
charm  to  overcome  the  impression  of  this  gloze  of 
reckless  smartness. 

In  her  room  were  many  copies  of  a  weekly 
journal  of  gossip  and  scandal,  filled  with  items  about 
people  whom  it  called  "the  Four  Hundred"  and 
"  the  Mighty  Few  "  and  of  whom  it  spoke  with 
familiarity,  yet  with  the  deference  of  pretended  dis 
dain.  Emily  noticed  that  Theresa  and  her  acquain- 


50      A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

tances  in  the  boarding-house  talked  much  of  these 
persons,  in  a  way  which  made  it  clear  that  they  did 
not  know  them  and  regarded  the  fact  as  greatly  to 
their  own  discredit. 

The  one  subject  which  Theresa  would  not  discuss 
was  her  shopping  business.  Emily  was  eager  to 
hear  about  it,  and,  as  far  as  politeness  permitted,  en 
couraged  her  to  talk  of  it,  but  Theresa  always 
sheered  off.  Nor  did  she  seem  to  be  under  the 
necessity  of  giving  it  close  or  regular  attention. 

"  It  looks  after  itself,"  she  said,  with  an  uneasy 
laugh.  "  Let's  talk  of  your  affairs.  We're  going  to 
dine  Thursday  night  with  Frank  Demorest  and  a 
man  we  think  can  help  you — a  man  named  Marlowe. 
He  writes  for  the  Democrat.  He  goes  everywhere 
getting  news  of  politics  and  wars.  I  see  his  name 
signed  every  once  in  a  while.  He's  clever,  much 
cleverer  to  talk  with  than  he  is  as  a  writer. 
Usually  writers  are  such  stupid  talkers.  Frank  says 
they  save  all  their  good  wares  to  sell." 

On  Thursday  at  half-past  seven  the  two  men 
came.  Demorest  was  tall  and  thin,  with  a  languid 
air  which  Emily  knew  at  once  was  carefully  studied 
from  the  best  models  in  fiction  and  in  the  class 
that  poses.  One  could  see  at  a  glance  that  he  was 
spending  his  life  in  doing  deliberately  useless  things. 
His  way  of  speaking  to  admiring  Theresa  was  after 
the  pattern  of  well-bred  insolence.  Marlowe  was  not 
so  tall,  but  his  personality  seemed  to  her  as  vivid  and 
sincere  as  Demorest's  seemed  colourless  and  false. 
He  had  the  self-possession  of  one  who  is  well  ac- 


BACK    TO    THE    MAINLAND.   51 

quainted  with  the  human  race.  His  eyes  were  gray- 
green,  keen,  rather  small  and  too  restless — Emily 
did  not  like  them.  He  spoke  swiftly  yet  distinctly. 
Demorest  seemed  a  man  of  the  world,  Marlowe  a 
citizen  of  the  world. 

They  got  into  Demorest's  open  automobile,  Mar 
lowe  and  Emily  in  the  back  seat,  and  set  out  for 
Clairmont.  For  the  first  time  in  nearly  two  years 
Emily  was  experiencing  a  sensation  akin  to  happi 
ness.  The  city  looked  vast  and  splendid  and 
friendly.  Wherever  her  eyes  turned  there  were 
good-humoured  faces — the  faces  of  well-dressed, 
healthy  women  and  men  who  were  out  under  that 
soft,  glowing  summer  sky  in  a  determined  search 
for  pleasure.  She  saw  that  Marlowe  was  smiling  as 
he  looked  at  her. 

"  Why  are  you  laughing  at  me  ?  "  she  asked,  as 
the  automobile  slowed  down  in  a  press  of  cabs  and 
carriages. 

"  Not  at  you,  but  with  you,"  he  replied. 

"  But  why  ?  " 

"  Because  I'm  as  glad  to  be  here  as  you  are.  And 
you  are  very  glad  indeed,  and  are  showing  it  so 
delightfully."  He  looked  frank  but  polite  admira 
tion  of  her  sweet,  delicate  face — she  liked  his 
expression  as  much  as  she  had  disliked  the  way  in 
which  Demorest  had  examined  her  face  and  figure 
and  dress. 

She  sighed.  "  But  it  won't  last  long,"  she  said, 
pensively  rather  than  sadly.  She  was  thinking  of 
to-morrow  and  the  days  thereafter — the  days  in 


52      A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

which  she  would  be  facing  a  very  different  aspect  of 
the  city. 

"But  it  will  last— if  you  resolve  that  it  shall,"  he 

said.     "  Why   make    up   your  mind  to  the  worst  ? 

•  Why  not  the  best?     Just  keep  your  eyes  on   the 

Jpresent    until   it  frowns.     Then  the  future  will  be 

bright  by  contrast,  and  you  can  look  at  it." 

"  This  city  makes  me  feel  painfully  small  and 
weak."  Emily  hid  her  earnestness  in  a  light  tone 
and  smile.  "  And  I'm  not  able  to  take  myself  so 
very  seriously." 

"  You  should  be  glad  of  that.  It  seems  to  me 
absurd  for  one  to  take  himself  seriously.  It  inter 
feres  with  one's  work.  But  one  ought  always  to 
take  his  work  seriously,  I  think,  and  sacrifice  every 
thing  to  it.  Do  you  remember  what  Caesar  said  to 
the  pilot?" 

"  No— what  was  it  ?  " 

"  The  pilot  said,  '  It's  too  stormy  to  cross  the 
Adriatic  to-night.  You  will  be  drowned. '  And 
Caesar  answered  :  '  It  is  not  important  whether  I 
live  or  die.  But  it  is  important  that,  if  I'm  alive 
to-morrow  morning,  I  shall  be  on  the  other  shore. 
Let  us  start ! '  I  read  that  story  many  years  ago — 
almost  as  many  as  you've  lived.  It  has  stood  me  in 
good  stead  several  times." 

At  the  next  slowing  down,  Marlowe  went 
on : 

"  You're  certain  to  win.  All  that  one  needs  to  do 
is  to  keep  calm  and  not  try  to  hurry  destiny.  He's 
sure  to  come  into  his  own."  He  hesitated,  then 


BACK    TO    THE    MAINLAND.   53 

added  .  "  And  I  think  your  '  own '  is  going  to  be 
worth  while." 

They  swung  into  the  Riverside  Drive — the  sun 
was  making  the  crest  of  the  wooded  Palisades  look 
as  if  a  forest  fire  were  raging  there ;  the  Hudson, 
broad  and  smooth  and  still,  was  slowly  darkening  • 
the  breeze  mingled  the  freshness  of  the  water  and 
the  fragrance  of  the  trees.  And  Emily  felt  a 
burden,  like  an  oppressively  heavy  garment,  falling 
from  her. 

"What  are  you  thinking?"  asked  Marlowe. 

"  Of  Stoughton — and  this,"  she  replied. 

"  Was  Stoughton  very  bad,  as  bad  as  those  towns 
usually  are  to  impatient  young  persons  who  wish  to 
live  before  they  die  ?  " 

"  Worse  than  you  can  imagine — a  nightmare.  It 
seems  to  me  that  hereafter,  whenever  I  feel  low  in 
my  mind,  I'll  say  '  Well,  at  least  this  is  not  Stough 
ton,'  and  be  cheerful  again." 

They  were  at  Clairmont,  and  as  Emily  saw  the  inn 
and  its  broad  porches  and  the  tables  where  women 
and  men  in  parties  and  in  couples  were  enjoying 
themselves,  as  she  drank  in  the  lively,  happy  scene 
of  the  summer  and  the  city  and  the  open  air,  she 
felt  like  one  who  is  taking  his  first  outing  after  an  ill 
ness  that  thrust  him  down  to  death's  door.  They 
went  round  the  porch  and  out  into  the  gravelled 
open,  to  a  table  that  had  been  reserved  for  them 
under  the  big  tree  at  the  edge  of  the  bluff. 

There  was  enough  light  from  the  electric  lamps 
of  the  inn  and  pavilions  to  make  the  table  clearly 


54      A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

visible,  but  not  enough  to  blot  out  the  river  and 
the  Palisades.  It  was  not  an  especially  good  dinner 
and  was  slowly  served,  so  Frank  complained.  But 
Emily  found  everything  perfect,  and  astonished 
Theresa  and  delighted  the  men  with  her  flow  of 
high  spirits.  Theresa  drank  more,  and  Emily  less, 
than  her  share  of  the  champagne.  As  Emily  had 
nothing  in  her  mind  which  the  frankness  of  wine 
could  unpleasantly  reveal,  the  contrast  between  her 
and  Theresa  became  strongly,  perhaps  unjustly, 
marked  with  the  progress  of  the  "party,"  as  Theresa 
called  it ;  for  Theresa,  who  affected  and  fairly  well 
carried  off  a  man-to-man  frankness  of  speech,  began 
to  make  remarks  at  which  Demorest  laughed  loudly, 
Marlowe  politely,  and  which  Emily  pretended  not 
to  hear.  Demorest  drank  far  too  much  and 
presently  showed  it  by  outdoing  Theresa.  Marlowe 
saw  that  Emily  was  annoyed,  and  insisted  that  he 
could  stay  no  longer.  This  forced  the  return  home. 

As  they  were  entering  the  automobile,  Demorest 
made  a  politely  insolent  observation  to  Theresa  on 
"her  prim  friend  from  New  England,"  which  Emily 
could  not  help  overhearing.  She  flushed  ;  Marlowe 
frowned  contemptuously  at  Demorest's  back. 

"  Don't  think  about  him,"  said  he  to  Emily,  when 
they  were  under  way.  "  He's  too  insignificant  for 
such  a  triumph  as  spoiling  your  evening." 

Emily  laughed  gaily.  "  Oh,  it  is  a  compliment 
to  be  called  prim  by  some  men,"  she  said,  "  though 
I'd  not  like  to  be  thought  prim  by  those  capable  of 
judging." 


BACK    TO    THE    MAINLAND.    55 

"  Only  low-minded  or  ignorant  people  are  prim," 
replied  Marlowe. 

"  There's  one  thing  worse,"  said  Emily. 

"  And  what  is  that  ?  " 

"  Whyy  the  mask  off  a  mind  that  is  usually 
masked  by  primness.  I  like  deception  when  it  pro 
tects  me  from  the  sight  of  offensive  things." 

At  the  boarding-house  Marlowe  got  out.  "  Frank 
and  I  are  going  to  supper,"  said  Theresa  to  Emily. 
"  You're  coming  ?" 

"  Thanks,  no,"  answered  Emily.  "  I'm  tired  to 
night." 

Marlowe  accompanied  her  up  the  steps  and  asked 
her  to  wait  until  he  had  returned  from  giving 
the  key  to  Theresa.  When  he  rejoined  her,  he 
said  : 

"  If  you'll  come  to  my  office  to-morrow  at  two,  I 
think  I  can  get  you  a  chance  to  show  what  you 
can  or  can't  do.  " 

Emily's  eyes  shone  and  her  voice  was  a  little 
uncertain  as  she  said,  after  a  silence : 

"  If  you  ever  had  to  make  a  start  and  suddenly 
got  help  from  some  one,  as  I'm  getting  it  from  you, 
you'll  know  how  I  feel." 

"  I'm  really  not  doing  you  a  favour.  If  you  get 
on,  I  shall  have  done  the  paper  a  service.  If  you 
don't,  I'll  simply  have  delayed  you  on  your  way 
to  the  work  that's  surely  waiting  for  you  some 
where." 

"  I  shall  insist  upon  being  grateful,"  said  Emily, 
as  she  gave  him  her  hand.  She  was  pleased  that  he 


56       A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

held  it  a  little  longer  and  a  little  more  tightly  than 
was  necessary. 

"  I  don't  like  his  eyes,"  she  thought,"  but  I  do  like 
the  way  he  can  look  out  of  them.  They  must 
belie  1dm." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

AMONG  A  STRANGE  PEOPLE. 

AS  the  office  boy,  after  inquiry,  showed 
Emily  into  Marlowe's  office  on  the 
third  floor  of  the  Democrat  building, 
he  was  putting  on  his  coat  to  receive 
her. 

"  Good  morning,"  he  said,  in  a  business  tone. 
"  You'll  forgive  me.  I'm  in  a  rush  to  get  away  to 
Saratoga  this  evening — for  the  Republican  conven 
tion.  Let's  go  to  the  City  Editor  at  once,  if  you 
please." 

They  went  down  a  long  hall  to  a  door  marked 
"  News  Room — Morning  Edition."  Marlowe  held 
open  the  door  and  she  found  herself  in  a  large  room 
filled  with  desks,  at  many  of  which  were  men  in 
their  shirt  sleeves  writing.  They  crossed  to  a 
door  marked,  "  City  Editor."  Marlowe  knocked. 
"  Come  in,"  an  irritated  voice  responded,"  if  you 
must.  But  don't  stay  long." 

"  What  a  bear/'said  Marlowe  cheerfully,  not  low- 
ering  his  voice.  "  It's  a  lady,  Bobbie.  So  you  must 
sheathe  your  claws." 

"  Bobbie" — or  Mr.  Stilson — rose,  an  apology  in 
his  strong-featured,  melancholy  face. 


58      A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

"  Pardon  me,  Miss  Bromfield,"  he  said,  when  he 
had  got  her  name.  "  They've  been  knocking  at  that 
door  all  day  long,  and  coming  in  and  driving  me 
half  mad  with  their  nonsense." 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  Marlowe,  "  I  must  get  away. 
This  is  the  young  woman  I  talked  to  you  about. 
Don't  mind  his  manner,  Miss  Bromfield.  He's  a 
'  soft  one  '  in  reality,  and  puts  on  the  burrs  to  shield 
himself.  Good-bye,  good  luck."  And  he  was 
gone,  Emily  noted  vaguely  that  his  manner  to 
ward  "  Bobbie"  was  a  curious  mixture  of  affection, 
admiration,  and  audacity — "  like  the  little  dog  wkh 
the  big  one,"  she  thought. 

Emily  seated  herself  in  a  chair  with  newspapers 
in  it  but  less  occupied  in  that  way  than  any  other 
horizontal  part  of  the  little  office.  Stilson  was 
apparently  examining  her  with  disapproval.  But 
as  she  looked  directly  into  his  eyes,  she  saw  that 
Marlowe  had  told  the  truth.  They  were  beautiful 
with  an  expression  of  manly  gentleness.  And  she 
detected  the  same  quality  in  his  voice,  beneath  a 
surface  tone  of  abruptness. 

"  I  can't  give  you  a  salary,"  he  said.  "  We  start 
our  beginners  on  space.  We  pay  seven  and  a  half 
a  column.  You'll  make  little  at  first.  I  hope  Mar 
lowe  warned  you  against  this  business." 

"  No,"  replied  Emily,  doing  her  best  to  make  her 
manner  and  voice  pleasing.  "  On  the  contrary,  he 
was  enthusiastic." 

"  He  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself.  However, 
I  suppose  you've  got  to  make  a  living.  And  if  a 


AMONG  A  STRANGE  PEOPLE.   59 

woman  must  work,  or  thinks  she  must,  she  can't 
discover  the  superiority  of  matrimony  at  its  worst 
more  quickly  in  any  other  business." 

Stilson  pressed  an  electric  button  and  said  to  the 
boy  who  came  :  "  Tell  Mr.  Coleman  I  wish  to  speak 
to  him." 

A  fat  young  man,  not  well  shaved,  his  shirt  sleeves 
rolled  up  and  exposing  a  pair  of  muscular,  hairy 
arms  to  the  elbows  and  above,  appeared  in  the 
doorway  with  a  "  Yes,  sir,"  spoken  apologetically. 

"  Miss  Bromfield,  Mr.  Coleman.  Here  is  the 
man  who  makes  the  assignments.  He'll  give  you 
something  to  do.  Let  her  have  the  desk  in  the 
second  row  next  to  the  window,  Coleman,"  Stil 
son  nodded,  opened  a  newspaper  and  gave  it 
absorbed  attention. 

Emily  was  irritated  because  he  had  not  risen  or 
spoken  the  commonplaces  of  courtesy ;  but  she 
told  herself  that  such  details  of  manners  could  not 
be  kept  up  in  the  rush  of  business.  She  followed 
Coleman  dejectedly  to  the  table  desk  assigned  her. 
He  called  a  poorly  preserved  young  woman  of  per- 
haps  twenty-five,  sitting  a  few  rows  away,  and  intro 
duced  her  as  "  Miss  Farwell,  one  of  the  society 
reporters."  Emily  looked  at  her  with  the  same 
covert  but  searching  curiosity  with  which  she  was 
examining  Emily. 

"  You  are  new  ?  "  Miss  Farwell  asked. 

"  Very  new  and  very  frightened." 

K  It  is  terrible  for  us  women,  isn't  it  ? "  Miss 
Farwell's  plaintive  smile  uncovered  irregular  teeth 


60      A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

heavily  picked  out  with  gold.  "  But  you'll  find  it 
not  so  unpleasant  here  after  you  catch  on.  They 
try  to  make  it  as  easy  as  they  can  for  women." 

Emily's  thoughts  were  painful  as  she  studied 
her  fellow-journalist,  "  Why  do  women  get  them 
selves  up  in  such  rubbish  ?  "  she  said  to  herself  as  she 
noted  Miss  Farwell's  slovenly  imitation  of  an  im 
ported  model.  "  And  why  don't  they  make  them 
selves  clean  and  neat  ?  and  why  do  they  let  them 
selves  get  fat  and  pasty  ?  "  Miss  Farwell's  hair  was 
in  strings  and  thin  behind  the  ears.  Her  hands 
were  not  well  looked  after.  Her  face  had  a  shine 
that  was  glossiest  on  her  nose  and  chin.  Her  dress, 
with  its  many  loose  ends  of  ruffle  and  puff,  was  far 
from  fresh.  She  looked  a  discouraged  young 
woman  of  the  educated  class.  And  her  querulous 
voice,  a  slight  stoop  in  her  shoulders,  and  soft,  pro 
jecting,  pathetic  eyes  combined  to  give  her  the  air 
of  one  who  feels  that  she  is  out  of  her  station,  but 
strives  to  bear  meekly  a  doom  of  being  down 
trodden  and  put  upon.  "  If  ever  she  marries," 
thought  Emily,  "  she  will  be  humbly  grateful  at  first, 
and  afterwards  a  nagger." 

In  the  hope  of  seeing  a  less  depressing  object, 
Emily  sent  her  glance  straying  about  the  room. 
The  men  had  suspended  work  and  were  watching 
her  with  interest  and  frank  pleasure.  "  No  wonder," 
she  thought,  as  she  remembered  her  own  neatness, 
the  freshness  and  simplicity  of  her  blue  linen  gown 
— she  had  been  able  to  get  it  at  a  fashionable  shop 
for  fifty  dollars  because  it  was  a  model  and  the  sell- 


AMONG  A  STRANGE  PEOPLE.   61 

ing  season  was  ended.  In  the  far  corner  sat  another 
woman.  Miss  Farwell,  noting  on  whom  Emily's 
glance  paused,  said  :  "  That  is  Miss  Gresham.  She's 
a  Vassar  girl  who  came  on  the  paper  last  year.  She's 
a  favorite  with  Mr.  Stilson,  so  she  gets  on." 

Miss  Gresham  looked  up  from  her  writing  and 
Miss  Farwell  beckoned.  Emily's  spirits  rose  as 
Miss  Gresham  came.  "  This,"  she  thought,  "  is  nearer 
my  ideal  of  an  intelligent,  self-respecting  working 
woman,"  Miss  Gresham  was  dressed  simply  but 
fitly — a  properly  made  shirt  waist,  white  and  clean 
and  completed  at  the  neck  with  a  French  collar ;  a 
short  plain  black  skirt  that  revealed  presentable 
feet  in  presentable  boots.  She  shook  hands  in  a 
friendly  business-like  way,  and  Emily  thought ;  "  She 
would  be  pretty  if  her  hair  were  not  so  severely 
brushed  back.  As  it  is,  she  is  handsome — and  so 
clean." 

"  I  was  just  going  out  to  lunch.  Won't  you  come 
with  me  ?  "  asked  Miss  Gresham. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I'm  permitted  to  do."  Emily 
looked  toward  Mr.  Coleman's  desk.  He  was  watch 
ing  her  and  now  called  her.  As  she  approached, 
his  grin  became  faintly  flirtatious. 

"  Here  is  a  little  assignment  fo/  you,"  he  said 
graciously,  extending  one  of  his  unpleasant  looking 
arms  with  a  cutting  from  the  Evening  Journal  held 
in  the  large,  plump  hand.  As  he  spoke  the  door  of 
Mr.  Stilson's  office  immediately  behind  him  opened, 
and  Mr.  Stilson  appeared. 

"  What  are  you  doing  there?  "  he  demanded. 


62      A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

Coleman  jumped  guiltily.  "  I  was  just  going  to 
start  Miss  Bromfield."  His  voice  was  a  sort  of 
wheedling  whine,  like  that  of  a  man  persuading  a 
fractious  horse  on  which  he  is  mounted  and  of  which 
he  is  afraid. 

"Let  me  see."  Stilson  took  the  cutting.  "Won't 
do.  Send  her  with  Miss  Gresham."  And  he  turned 
away  without  looking  at  Emily  or  seeming  conscious 
of  her  presence.  But  she  sent  a  grateful  glance 
after  him.  "  How  much  more  sensible,"  she 
thought,  "  than  turning  me  out  to  wander  helplessly 
about  alone." 

Miss  Gresham's  assignment  was  a  national  con 
vention  of  women's  clubs — "  A  tame  affair,"  said 
she,  "  unless  the  delegates  get  into  a  wrangle.  If 
men  squabble  and  lose  their  tempers  and  make  fools 
of  themselves,  it's  taken  as  a  matter  of  course.  But 
if  women  do  the  very  same  thing  in  the  very  same 
circumstances,  it's  regarded  as  proof  of  their  folly 
and  lack  of  capacity." 

"  I  suppose  the  men  delight  in  seeing  the  women 
writhe  under  criticism,"  said  Emily. 

"  Well,  it  isn't  easy  to  endure  criticism,"  replied 
Miss  Gresham.  "  But  it  must  be  borne,  and  it  does 
one  good,  whether  it's  just  or  unjust.  It  teaches 
one  to  realise  that  this  world  is  not  a  hothouse." 

"  I  wish  it  were — sometimes,"  confessed  Emily. 
The  near  approach  of  "  the  struggle  for  existence  " 
made  her  faint-hearted. 

Miss  Gresham  could  not  resist  a  smile  as  she 
looked  at  Emily,  in  face,  in  dress,  in  manner,  the 


AMONG  A  STRANGE  PEOPLE.   63 

"hothouse"  woman.  "It  could  be  for  you,  if 
you  wished  it." 

"  But  I  don't,"  said  Emily,  with  sudden  energy 
and  a  change  of  expression  that  brought  out  the 
strong  lines  of  her  mouth  and  chin,  And  Miss 
Gresham  began  to  suspect  that  there  were  phases  to 
her  character  other  than  sweetness  and  a  fondness 
for  the  things  immemorially  feminine.  "  I  purpose 
to  learn  to  like  the  open  air,"  she  said,  and  looked 
it. 

Miss  Gresham  nodded  approvingly.  "The  open 
air  is  best,  in  the  end.  It  develops  every  plant 
according  to  its  nature.  The  hothouses  stunt  the 
best  plants,  and  disguise  lots  of  rank  weeds." 

As  they  were  coming  away  from  the  convention, 
Miss  Gresham  said  :  "  Instead  of  handing  in  your 
story  to  the  City  Desk,  keep  it,  and  we'll  go  over  it 
together  this  evening,  after  I'm  through." 

"  Thank  you — it's  so  good  of  you  to  take  the 
trouble.  Yes,  I'll  try."  Emily  hesitated  and  grew 
red. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  asked  Miss  Gresham,  encourag 
ingly. 

"  I  was  thinking  about — this  evening.  I  never 
thought  of  it  before — do  you  write  at  night  ?  And 
how  do  you  get  home  ?  " 

"  Certainly  I  write  at  night.  And  I  go  home  as 
other  business  people  do.  I  take  the  car  as  far  as 
it  will  take  me,  then  I  walk." 

"  I  shall  be  frightened — horribly  frightened." 

"  For  a  few  evenings,  but  you'll  soon  be  used  to  it. 


64      A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

You  don't  know  what  a  relief  it  will  be  to  feel  free 
to  go  about  alone.  Of  course,  they're  careful  at 
the  office  what  kind  of  night-assignments  they  give 
women.  But  I  make  it  a  point  not  to  let  them 
think  of  my  sex  any  more  than  is  absolutely 
necessary.  It's  a  poor  game  to  play  in  the  end — to 
shirk  on  the  plea  of  sex.  I  think  most  of  the 
unpleasant  experiences  working-women  have  are 
due  to  that  folly — dragging  their  sex  into  their 
business." 

Emily  felt  and  looked  dismal  as  she  sat  at  her 
desk,  struggling  to  put  on  paper  her  idea  of  what 
the  newspaper  would  want  of  what  she  had  seen 
and  heard.  She  wasted  so  many  sheets  of  paper 
in  trying  to  begin  that  she  was  ashamed  to  look  at 
the  heap  they  made  on  the  floor  beside  her.  Also, 
she  felt  that  every  one  was  watching  her  and  se 
cretly  laughing  at  her.  After  three  hours  of 
wretchedness  she  had  produced  seven  loosely  writ 
ten  pages — "  enough  to  fill  columns,"  she  thought, 
but  in  reality  a  scant  half-column.  "  I  begin  to  un 
derstand  why  Miss  Farwell  looks  so  mussy,"  she 
said  to  herself,  miserably  eyeing  her  stained  hands 
and  wilted  dress,  and  thinking  of  her  hair,  fiercely 
bent  upon  hanging  out  and  down.  She  was  so 
nervous  that  if  she  had  been  alone  she  would  have 
cried. 

"  It  is  impossible,"  she  thought.  "  I  can  never 
do  it.  I'm  of  no  account.  What  a  weak,  foolish 
creature  I  am." 

She  looked  round,  with   an  idea  of  escaping,  to 


AMONG  A  STRANGE  PEOPLE.   65 

hide  herself  and  never  return.  But  Miss  Gresham 
was  between  her  and  the  door.  Besides,  had  she 
not  burned  her  bridges  behind  her?  She  simply 
must,  must,  must  make  the  fight. 

She  remembered  Marlowe's  story  of  Caesar  and 
the  pilot — "  I  can't  more  than  fail  and  die,'*  she 
groaned,  "  and  if  I  am  to  live,  I  must  work."  Then 
she  laughed  at  herself  for  taking  herself  so  seriously. 
She  thought  of  Marlowe — "  What  would  he  say  if 
he  could  see  me  now?"  She  went  through  her 
list  of  acquaintances,  picturing  to  herself  how  each 
would  look  and  what  each  would  say  at  sight  of  her 
sitting  there — a  working-girl,  begrimed  by  toil. 
She  thought  of  Wayland — the  contrast  between  her 
present  position  and  what  it  would  have  been  had 
she  married  him.  Then  she  recalled  the  night  he 
seized  her  and  kissed  her — her  sensation  of  loathing, 
how  she  had  taken  a  bath  afterward  and  had  gone 
to  bed  in  the  dark  with  her  neck  where  he  had 
kissed  her  smarting  like  a  poisoned  sore. 

"  You  take  the  Madison  Avenue  car?"  Miss 
Gresham  interrupted,  startling  her  so  that  she  leaped 
in  her  chair.  "  We'll  go  together  and  read  what 
you've  written." 

Miss  Gresham  went  through  it  without  changing^ 
expression.     At  the  end  she  nodded  reassuringly. « 
"  It's  a  fairly  good  essay.     Of  course  you  couldn't 
be  expected  to  know  the  newspaper  style." 

And  she  went  on  to  point  out  the  crudities — how 
it  might  have  been  begun,  where  there  might  have 
been  a  few  lines  of  description,  why  certain  para- 


66       A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

graphs  were  too  stilted,  "too  much  like  magazine 
literature."  She  gave  Emily  a  long  slip  of  paper 
on  which  was  about  a  newspaper  column  of  print. 
"  Here's  a  proof  of  my  story.  I  wrote  it  before 
dinner  and  it  was  set  up  early.  Of  course,  it's  not 
a  model.  But  after  you  leave  me  you  can  read  it 
over,  and  perhaps  it  may  give  you  some  points. 
Then  you  might  try — not  to-night,  but  to-morrow 
morning — to  write  your  story  again.  That's  the 
easiest  and  quickest  way  to  catch  on." 

At  Emily's  corner  Miss  Gresham  said,  "  I'll  take 
you  home  this  once,"  and  left  the  car  with  her.  As 
they  went  through  the  silent,  empty  street,  their 
footsteps  lightly  echoing  from  house  wall  to  house 
wall,  Emily  forgot  her  article  and  her  other  worri- 
ments  in  the  foreboding  of  these  midnight  journeys 
alone.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  I  simply  can't,"  she 
thought.  "  And  yet  I  simply  must — and  of  course 
I  will.  If  only  I  had  been  doing  it  for  a  month, 
or  even  a  week,  instead  of  having  to  look  forward 
to  the  first  time." 

Miss  Gresham  took  her  to  her  door,  then  strode 
away  down  the  street — an  erect,  resolute  figure, 
business-like  from  head  to  heels.  Emily  looked 
after  her  with  rising  courage,  "What  a  brave,  fine 
girl  she  is,"  she  thought,  "  how  intelligent,  how 
capable.  She  is  the  kind  of  woman  I  have  dreamt 
about." 

And  she  went  in  with  a  lightening  heart. 


1 


CHAPTER  IX. 

AN  ORCHID   HUNTER. 


first  night  that  Emily  ventured  home 
alone  a  man  spoke  to  her  before  she  had 
got  twenty  feet  from  the  car  tracks. 
She  had  thought  that  if  this  should  hap 
pen  she  would  faint.  But  when  he  said, 
"  It's  a  pleasant  evening,"  she  put  her  head  down 
and  walked  steadily  on  and  told  herself  she  was  not 
in  the  least  frightened.  It  was  not  until  she  was 
inside  her  door  that  her  legs  trembled  and  her 
heart  beat  fast.  She  sank  down  on  the  stairs  in  the 
dark  and  had  a  nervous  chill.  And  it  was  a  very 
unhappy,  discouraged,  self-distrustful  girl  that  pres 
ently  crept  shakily  up  to  bed. 

On  the  second  night-journey  she  thought  she 
heard  some  one  close  and  stealthy  behind  her.  She 
broke  into  a  run,  arriving  at  the  door  out  of  breath 
and  ashamed  of  herself.  "You  might  have  been 
arrested,"  said  Miss  Gresham  whan  Emily  confessed 
to  her.  "  If  a  policeman  had  seen  you,  he'd  have 
thought  you  were  flying  from  the  scene  of  your 
crime." 

A  few  nights  afterwards  a  policeman  did  stop 
her.  "You've  got  to  keep  out  of  this  street,"  he 
began  roughly.  "  I've  noticed  you  several  times 
now." 


68      A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

Instead  of  being  humiliated  or  frightened,  Emily 
became  angry.  "  I'm  a  newspaper  woman — on  the 
Democrat"  she  said  haughtily,  and  just  then  he  got 
a  full  view  of  her  face  and  of  the  look  in  her  eyes. 

He  took  off  his  helmet.  "Beg  pardon,  miss,"  he 
said  humbly,  and  with  sincerity  of  regret.  "  I'm 
very  sorry.  I  didn't  see  you  distinctly.  I've  got 
a  sister  that  does  night  work.  I  ought  to  a  knowed 
better." 

Emily  made  no  reply,  but  went  on.  She  was 
never  afraid  again,  and  after  a  month  wondered 
how  it  had  been  possible  for  her  to  be  afraid,  and 
pitied  women  who  were  as  timid  and  helpless  as  she 
had  been.  Whenever  the  policeman  passed  her  he 
touched  his  hat.  She  soon  noticed  that  it  was  not 
always  the  same  policeman  and  understood  that  the 
first  one  had  warned  the  entire  force  at  the  station 
house.  Often  when  there  were  many  loungers  in  the 
street  the  policeman  turned  and  followed  her  at  a 
respectful  distance  until  she  was  home  ;  and  one 
rainy  night  he  asked  her  to  wait  in  the  shelter  of  a 
deep  doorway  at  the  corner  while  he  went  across  to 
a  saloon  and  borrowed  an  umbrella.  He  gave  it  to 
her  and  dropped  behind,  coming  up  to  get  it  at  her 
door. 

'    Thus   what   threatened   to  be  her  greatest  trial 
proved  no  trial  at  all. 

On  the  last  day  of  her  first  week,  Mr.  Stilson  sent 
for  her  and  gave  her  an  order  on  the  cashier  for 
twelve  dollars.  "  Are  they  treating  you  well  ?  "  he 
asked,  his  eyes  kind  and  encouraging. 


AN    ORCHID    HUNTER.       69 

"  Yes,  you  are  treating  me  well." 

Stilson  coloured. 

"  And  I  honestly  don't  think  I've  earned  so  much 
money,"  she  went  on. 

"  I'm  not  in  the  habit  of  swindling  the  owners  of 
/the  Democrat"  he  interrupted  curtly. 

Emily  turned  away,  humiliated  and  hurt.  "  He  is 
insulting,"  she  said  to  herself  with  flashing  eyes 
and  quivering  lips.  "  Oh,  if  I  did  not  have  to  en 
dure  it,  I'd  say  things  he'd  not  forget." 

She  was  sitting  at  her  desk,  still  fuming,  when  he 
came  out  of  his  office  and  looked  round.  As  he 
walked  toward  her,  she  saw  that  he  was  limping 
painfully.  "  Pardon  me,  Miss  Bromfield,"  he  said. 
"  I'm  suffering  the  tortures  of  hell  from  this  in 
fernal  rheumatism."  And  he  was  gone  without 
looking  at  her  or  giving  her  a  chance  to  reply. 

"  So,  it's  only  rheumatism,"  she  thought,  molli 
fied  as  to  the  rudeness,  but  disappointed  as  to  the 
office  romance  of  the  City  Editor's  "  secret  sorrow." 
She  did  not  tell  Miss  Gresham  of  the  apology,  but 
could  not  refrain  from  saying :  "  I  have  heard  that 
Mr.  Stilson  is  rude  because  he  is  rheumatic." 

"  That  may  have  something  to  do  with  it.  I 
remember  when  he  got  it.  He  was  a  writer  then, 
and  went  down  to  the  Oil  River  floods.  The  cor 
respondents  had  to  sleep  on  the  wet  ground,  and 
endure  all  sorts  of  hardships.  He  was  in  a  hospital 
in  Pittsburg  for  two  months.  But  there's  some 
thing  else  besides  rheumatism  in  his  case.  Long 
before  that,  I  saw " 


70      A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

Miss  Gresham  stopped  short,  seemed  irritated 
against  herself,  and  changed  the  subject  abruptly. 

Emily  timidly  joined  the  crowd  at  the  cashier's 
window  and,  when  her  turn  came,  was  much  discon 
certed  by  the  sharp,  suspicious  look  which  the  man 
within  cast  at  her.  She  signed  and  handed  in  her 
order.  He  searched  through  the  long  rows  of  en 
velopes  in  the  pay  drawer — searched  in  vain.  An 
other  suspicious  look  at  her  and  he  began  again. 
"  I'm  not  to  get  it  after  all "  she  thought  with  a 
sick,  sinking  feeling — how  often  afterward  she 
remembered  those  anxious  moments  and  laughed  at 
herself.  The  cashier's  man  searched  on  and  pres 
ently  drew  out  an  envelope.  Again  that  sharp  look 
and  he  handed  her  the  money.  She  could  not  re 
strain  a  deep  sigh  of  relief. 

She  went  home  in  triumph  to  Theresa  and  dis 
played  the  ten  dollar  bill  and  the  two  ones  as  if  they 
were  the  proofs  of  a  miracle.  "  It's  a  thrilling  sen 
sation,  "  she  said,  "  to  find  that  I  can  really  do 
something  for  which  somebody  will  pay."  She 
remembered  Stilson's  rudeness.  "  It  was  not  so  bad 
after  all,"  she  thought.  "  He  convinced  me  that  I 
had  really  earned  the  money.  If  he'd  been  polite 
I  should  have  feared  he  was  giving  it  to  me  out  of 
good-nature." 

"  Oh,  you're  getting  on  all  right,"  said  Theresa. 
"  I  saw  Marlowe  last  night  at  Delmonico's.  Frank 
and  I  were  dining  there,  and  he  stopped  to  speak  to 
us.  I  asked  him  about  you,  and — shall  I  tell  you 
just  what  he  said  ?  " 


AN    ORCHID    HUNTER.       71 

"  I  want  to  know  the  worst." 

"  Well,  he  said — of  course,  I  asked  about  you  the 
first  thing — and  he  said  that  he  and  your  City  Editor 
had  been  dining  at  the  Lotos  Club — Mr.  Stilson, 
isn't  it  ?  And  Mr.  Stilson  said  :  '  If  she  wasn't  so 
good-looking,  there  might  be  a  chance  of  her  becom 
ing  a  real  person.'  Marlowe  says  that's  a  high  com 
pliment  for  Mr.  Stilson,  because  he  is  mad  on  the 
subject  of  idle,  useless  women  and  men.  And,  Mr. 
Stilson  went  on  to  say  that  you  had  judgment  and 
weren't  vain,  and  that  you  had  as  much  patience 
and  persistence  as  Miss — I  forget  her  name " 

"  Was  it  Gresham  ?  "  asked  Emily. 

'*  No — that  wasn't  the  name.  Was  it  Tarheel  or 
Farheel  or  Farville — no — it  was " 

"  Oh."  Emily  looked  disappointed  and  foolish. 
She  had  seen  Miss  Farwell  an  hour  before — patient 
and  persevering  indeed,  but  frowzier  and  more  "  put 
upon  "  than  ever. 

"  Yes— Miss  Farwell.     Who  is  she  ?  " 

"  One  of  the  women  down  at  the  office,"  Emily 
said,  and  hurried  on  with :  "  What  else  did  Mar 
lowe  say  ?  " 

"That's  all,  except  that  he  wanted  us  four  to 
dine  together  soon.  When  can  you  go — on  a 
Sunday  ?" 

"  No,  Monday — that's  my  free  day.  I  took  it 
because  it  is  also  Miss  Gresham's  day  off.  She's 
the  only  friend  I've  made  down  town  thus  far." 

Marlowe  came  to  Emily's  desk  one  morning  in 
her  third  week  on  the  Democrat.  "  What  did  you 


72     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

have  in  the  paper  to-day  ?  "  he  asked,  after  he  had 
explained  that  he  was  just  returned  from  Washing 
ton  and  Chicago. 

"  A  few  paragraphs,"  she  replied,  drawing  a  space 
slip  from  a  drawer  and  displaying  three  small  items 
pasted  one  under  the  other. 

"  Not  startling,  are  they  ?  "  was  Marlowe's  com 
ment.  "  I've  asked  Miss  Duncan  to  bring  you  to 
dine  with  Demorest  and  me — the  postponed  dinner. 
But  I'd  rather  dine  with  you  alone.  I  don't  think 
Demorest  shines  in  your  society ;  then,  too,  we  can 
talk  shop.  I've  a  great  deal  to  say  to  you,  and  I 
think  I  can  be  of  some  use.  We  could  dine  in  the 
open  air  up  at  the  Casino — don't  you  like  dining  in 
the  open  air?  " 

Emily  had  been  brought  up  under  the  cha-peron 
system.  While  she  had  no  intention  of  clinging  to 
it,  she  hesitated  now  that  the  occasion  for  beginning 
the  break  had  come.  Also,  she  remembered  what 
Marlowe  had  said  to  her  at  her  door.  She  wished 
that  she  were  going  unchaperoned  with  some  other 
man  first. 

"  There's  a  prejudice  against  the  Casino  among 
some  conventional  people,"  he  said.  "  But  that 
does  not  apply  to  us." 

"  Oh,  I  wasn't  thinking  of  that,"  and  she  ac 
cepted. 

She  asked  Miss  Gresham  about  him  a  few  hours 
afterward. 

"  You've  met  Mr.  Marlowe  ?  "  she  said,  in  a  cor 
dial  tone.  "  Don't  you  think  him  clever?  You 


AN    ORCHID    HUNTER.       73 

may  hear  some  gossip  about  him — and  women. 
He's  good  looking,  and — and  much  like  all  men  in 
one  respect.  He's  the  sort  of  man  that  is  suspected 
of  affairs,  but  whose  name  is  never  coupled  with 
any  particular  woman's.  That's  a  good  sign,  don't 
you  think?  It  shows  that  the  gossip  isn't  started 
or  encouraged  by  him." 

"  Is  it — proper  for  me  to  go  to  dinner  with  him 
alone  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  Of  course,  if  they  see  you,  they 
may  talk  about  you.  But  what  does  that  matter  ? 
It  would  be  different  if  you  were  waiting  with 
folded  hands  for  some  man  to  come  along  and  un 
dertake  to  support  you  for  life.  Then  gossip  might 
damage  your  principal  asset.  But  now  your  prin 
cipal  asset  isn't  reputation  for  conventionality,  but 
brains.  And  you  don't  have  to  ask  favours  of  any 
body." 

Marlowe  and  Emily  had  a  table  at  the  end  of  the 
walk  parallel  with  the  entrance-drive.  The  main 
subject  of  conversation  was  Emily — what  she  had 
done,  what  she  could  do,  and  how  she  could  do  it. 
"All  that  I'm  saying  is  general,"  he  said.  "I'll 
help  you  to  apply  it,  if  I  may.  There's  no  reason 
why  you  should  not  be  doing  well — making  at  least 
forty  dollars  a  week — within  six  months.  We'll  get 
up  some  Sunday  specials  together  to  help  you  on 
faster.  The  main  point  is  a  new  way  of  looking  at 
whatever  you're  writing  about.  Your  good  taste 
will  always  save  you  from  being  flat  or  silly,  even 
when  you're  not  brilliant." 


74      A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

While  Marlowe  talked,  Emily  observed,  as  accu 
rately  as  it  is  possible  for  a  young  person  to  observe 
when  the  person  under  observation  is  good-looking, 
young,  of  the  opposite  sex,  and  when  both  are,  con 
sciously  and  unconsciously,  doing  their  utmost  to 
think  well  each  of  the  other.  He  had  a  low,  agree 
able  voice,  and  an  unusually  attractive  mouth.  His 
miad  was  quick,  his  manner  simple  and  direct.  Al 
though  he  was  clearly  younger  than  thirty-five,  his 
hair  was  sprinkled  with  gray  at  the  temples,  and 
there  were  wrinkles  in  his  forehead  and  at  the 
corners  of  his  eyes.  He  made  many  gestures,  and 
she  liked  to  watch  his  hands — the  hands  of  an  ath 
lete,  but  well-shaped. 

"  I  ride  and  swim  almost  every  day,"  he  said  inci 
dentally  to  some  discussion  about  the  sedentary 
life.  And  she  knew  why  he  looked  in  perfect 
health.  Emily  admired  him,  liked  him,  with  the 
quick  confidence  of  youth  trusted  him,  before 
they  had  been  talking  two  hours.  And  it  pleased 
her  to  see  admiration  of  her  in  his  eyes,  and  to  feel 
that  he  was  physically  and  mentally  glad  to  be  near 
her. 

As  they  were  drinking  champagne  (slightly  modi 
fied  by  apollinaris),  the  acquaintance  progressed 
swiftly.  It  would  have  been  all  but  impossible  for 
her  to  resist  the  contagion  of  his  open-mindedness, 
had  she  been  so  inclined.  But  she  herself  had 
rapidly  changed  in  her  month  in  New  York.  She 
felt  that  she  was  able  to  meet  a  man  on  his  own 
ground  now,  and  that  she  understood  men  far 


AN    ORCHID    HUNTER.        75 

better,  and  she  seemed  to  herself  to  be  seeing  life  in  a 
wholly  new  aspect — its  aspect  to  the  self-reliant  and 
free.  She  helped  him  to  hasten  through  those  ante 
rooms  to  close  acquaintance,  where,  as  he  put  it, 
"  stupid  people  waste  most  of  their  time  and  all 
their  chances  for  happiness." 

He  had  a  way  of  complimenting  her  which  was 
peculiarly  insidious.  He  was  talking  earnestly 
about  her  work,  his  mind  apparently  absorbed. 
Abruptly  he  interrupted  himself  with,  "  Don't  mind 
my  talking  so  much.  It's  happiness.  One  is  not 
often  happy.  And  I  feel  to-night "  —  this  with 
raillery  in  his  voice — "  like  an  orchid  hunter  who 
has  been  dragging  himself  through  jungles  for  days 
and  is  at  last  rewarded  with  the  sight  of  a  new  and 
wonderful  specimen — high  up  in  a  difficult  tree,  but 
still,  perhaps,  accessible."  And  then  he  went  on  to 
discuss  orchids  with  her  and  told  a  story  of  an 
acquaintance,  a  half-mad  orchid-hunter — all  with  no 
further  reference  to  her  personality. 

It  was  not  until  they  were  strolling  through  the 
Park  toward  Fifty-ninth  street  that  the  subject 
which  is  sure  to  appear  sooner  or  later  in  such  cir 
cumstances  and  conjunctions  started  from  cover  and 
fluttered  into  the  open. 

He  glanced  at  the  moon.  "  It  would  be  impossi 
ble  to  improve  upon  that  nice  old  lady  up  there  as 
a  chaperon,  wouldn't  it?  " 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  I'd  give  my  daughter  into  her 
charge,"  said  Emily. 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  ?" 


76      A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

"  Oh,  I  think  it  all  depends  upon  the  woman." 

"  Any  woman  who  couldn't  be  trusted  with  the 
moon  as  a  chaperon,  either  wouldn't  be  safe  with 
any  chaperon  or  wouldn't  be  worth  saving  from  the 
consequences  of  her  own  folly." 

"  Possibly.  But — I  confess  I  wouldn't  trust  even 
myself  implicitly  to  that  old  lady  up  there,  as  you 
call  her." 

"  But  you  are  doing  so  this  evening." 

"  Mercy,  no.  I've  two  other  guardians — myself 
and  you." 

"  Thank  you  for  including  me.  I'm  afraid  I 
don't  deserve  it." 

"  Then  I'll  try  to  arrange  it  so  that  I  sha'n't  have 
to  call  you  in  to  help  me." 

"  Would  you  think  me  very  absurd  if  I  told  you, 
in  the  presence  of  your  chaperon,  that  " — His  look 
made  her's  waver  for  an  instant — "  I  must  have  my 
orchid  ?  " 

"  Not  absurd,"  replied  Emily.  "  But  abrupt 
and " 

"  And— what  ?  " 

"  And  "—She  laughed.     "  And  interesting." 

"  There's  only  a  short  time  to  live,"  he  answered, 
"  and  I'm  no  longer  so  young  as  I  once  was.  But 
I  don't  wish  to  hurry  you.  I  don't  expect  any 
answer  now — it  would  be  highly  improper,  even  if 
your  answer  were  ready."  He  looked  at  her  with 
a  very  agreeable  audacity.  "  And  I'm  not  sure  that 
it  isn't  ready.  But  I  can  wait.  I  simply  spoke  my 
own  mind,  as  soon  as  I  saw  that  it  would  not  be 
disagreeable  to  you  to  hear  it." 


AN    ORCHID    HUNTER.        77 

"  How  did  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  Instinct,  pure  instinct.  No  sensitive  man  ever 
failed  to  know  whether  a  woman  found  him  tolera 
ble  or  intolerable." 

"  Don't  think,"  said  Emily,  seriously  but  not 
truthfully,  "  that  I'm  taking  your  remark  as  a 
tribute  to  myself.  I  understand  that  you  are 
striving  to  do  what  is  expected  of  a  man  on  such  a 
night  as  this." 

"  Does  one  have  to  tear  his  hair,  and  foam  at  the 
mouth,  in  order  to  convince  you  ?  "  asked  Marlowe, 
his  eyes  laughing,  yet  earnest  too. 

"  Yes,"  said  Emily  calmly.     "  Begin— please." 

"  No — I've  said  enough,  for  the  evening."  He 
was  walking  close  to  her,  and  there  was  no  raillery 
in  either  his  tone  or  his  eyes.  "  It's  so  new  and 
wonderful  a  sensation  to  me,  that  as  yet,  just  the 
pleasure  of  it  is  all  that  I  ask." 

"  But  you  don't  fit  in  with  my  plans — not  at  all," 
she  said,  in  a  way  that  must  have  been  encouraging 
since  it  was  not  in  the  least  discouraging.  "  I'm 
a  working  woman,  and  must  not  bother  with — with 
orchid  hunters." 

"Your  plans?  Oh!"  He  laughed,  "  Let  me 
help  you  revise  them."  He  saw  her  face  change. 
"  Or  rather,"  he  quickly  corrected,  "  let  me  help 
you  realise  them." 

They  were  to  join  Theresa  and  Frank  at  the 
New  York  roof-garden.  Just  before  they  entered 
the  street  doors,  he  said  :  "  I  think  there  are  only 
two  things  in  the  world  worth  living  for — work  and 


7«       A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

love.     And  I  think  neither  is  perfect  without  the 
other.     Perhaps — who  knows  ?• — " 

Her  answering  look  was  not  directed  toward  him, 
but  it  was  none  the  less  an  answer.  It  made  him 
feel  that  they  were  both  happy  in  the  anticipation 
of  greater  happiness  imminent. 


CHAPTER  X. 

FURTHER  EXPLORATION. 

WHEN  Emily  came  into  the  sitting-room 
the  next  morning  at  ten  she  found 
that  Theresa  had   ordered   breakfast 
for  both  sent  there,  and  was  waiting. 
She  was  in  a  dressing-gown,  her  hair 
twisted  in  a  careless  knot,  her  eyes  tired  and  cloud 
ed.     The  air  was  tainted  with  the  sweet,  stale,  heavy 
perfume  which  was  an  inseparable  part  of  her  per 
sonality.     "  I  wish  Theresa  wouldn't  use  that  scent," 
thought  Emily — her  first  thought  always  when  she 
came  near  Theresa  or  into  any  place  where  Theresa 
had  recently  been. 

"  How  well  you  have  slept,"  began  Theresa,  look 
ing  with  good-natured  envy  at  Emily's  fresh  face 
and  fresh  French  shirt-waist. 

"  Not  very,"  replied  Emily.  "  I  was  awake  until 
nearly  daylight." 

"  Did  you  hear  me  come  in?" 
"  I  heard  you  moving  about  your  room  just  as  I 
was  going  to  sleep."  Emily  knew  Theresa's  mode 
of  life.  But  she  avoided  seeming  to  know,  and  ig 
nored  Theresa's  frequent  attempts  to  open  the  sub 
ject  of  herself  and  Frank.  She  thought  she  had 
gone  far  enough  when  she  made  it  clear  that  she 
was  not  sitting  in  judgment  upon  her. 


8o       A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

"  I'm  blue — desperately  blue,"  continued  Theresa. 
"  I  don't  know  which  way  to  turn."  There  was  a 
long  pause,  then  with  a  flush  she  looked  at  Emily 
and  dropped  her  uneasy  eyes.  "  How " 

"  I  think  it  most  unwise,"  interrupted  Emily,  "  to 
confide  one's  private  affairs  to  any  other,  and  I  know 
it's  most  impertinent  for  any  other  to  peer  into 
them." 

"  You're  right — but  I've  got  to  talk  it  over  with 
some  one." 

"  I  hope  you  won't  tell  me  more  than  is  absolutely 
necessary,  Theresa." 

"  Well— I'm  «  up  against  it  '—to  use  the  kind  of 
language  that  fits  such  a  vulgar  muddle.  And  I've 
neglected  my  business  until  there's  nothing  left  of 
it."  A  long  pause,  then  in  a  strained  voice  :  "  I've 
been  planning  all  along  to  marry  Frank  Demorest 
and — I  find  not  only  that  he  wouldn't  marry  me  if 
he  could,  but  couldn't  if  he  would.  He's  going  to 
marry  money.  He's  got  to.  He  told  me  frankly 
last  night.  He's  down  to  less  than  ten  thousand  a 
year,  about  a  third  of  what  it  costs  him  to  live. 
And  he's  living  up  his  principal." 

"  This  is  the  saddest  tale  of  privation  and  poverty 
I  ever  heard,"  said  Emily.  Then  more  seriously  : 
"  You're  not  in  love  with  him  ?  " 

"  Well — he's  good  looking  ;  he  knows  the  world  ; 
he  has  the  right  sort  of  manners,  and  goes  with  the 
right  sort  of  people,  and  he  comes  of  a  splendid  old 
family." 

"  His  father  kept  a  drygoods  shop,  didn't  he  ?  " 


FURTHER    EXPLORATION.     81 

"  Yes — but  that  was  when  Frank  was  a  young 
man.  And  it  was  a  big  shop — wholesale,  you  know 
— not  retail.  He  never  worked  in  it  or  anyv/here 
else.  You  could  tell  that  he'd  never  worked,  but 
had  always  been  a  gentleman,  and  only  looked  after 
the  property." 

"  I  understand,"  Emily  nodded  with  great  solem 
nity.  "  We'll  concede  that  he's  a  gentleman.  What 
next  ?  " 

"Well,  I  wanted  to  marry  him.  It  would  have 
been  satisfactory  in  every  way.  I'd  have  got  back 
my  position  in  society  that  we  had  to  give  up  when 
father  lost  everything  and — and  died — and  mother 
wanted  to  drag  me  off  to  live  in  Blue  Mountain. 
Just  think  of  it — Blue  Mountain,  Vermont !  " 

"  I  am  thinking  of  it — or,  rather,  of  Stoughton," 
said  Emily,  with  a  shiver. 

"  And  I  simply  wouldn't  go.  I  went  to  work 
instead. — But — well — I'm  too  lazy  to  work.  I 
couldn't — and  I  can't.  I  can  talk  about  it  and  pre 
tend  about  it — but  I  can't  do  it.  And  now  I've  got 
to  choose  between  work  and  Blue  Mountain  once 
more." 

"  But  you  had  that  choice  before,  and  you  didn't 
go  to  Blue  Mountain.  Why  are  you  so  cut  up 
now?" 

"  I've  been  skating  on  thin  ice  these  last  four 
years.  And  I've  begun  to  think  about  the  future." 

"  How  could  I  advise  you  ?  I  can  only  say  that 
you  do  well  to  think  seriously  about  what  you're  to 
do — if  you  won't  work." 


82       A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

"  I  can't,  I  simply  can't,  work.  It's  so  common, 
so — Oh,  I  don't  see  it  as  you  do,  as  I  was  trying  to 
make  believe  I  saw  it  when  I  first  talked  to  you.  I 
feel  degraded  because  I  am  not  as  we  used  to  be. 
I  want  a  big  house  and  lots  of  servants  and  social 
position.  You  don't  know  how  low  I  feel  in  a  street 
car.  You  don't  know  how  wretched  I  am  when 
I  am  in  the  Waldorf  or  Sherry's  or  driving  in  the 
Park  in  a  hired  hansom,  or  when  I  see  the  carriages 
in  the  evening  with  the  women  on  their  way  to 
swell  dinners  or  balls.  You  don't  know  how  I  de 
spise  myself,  how  I  have  despised  myself  for  the 
last  four  years.  No  wonder  Frank  wouldn't  marry 
me.  He'd  have  been  a  fool  to."  The  tears  were 
rolling  down  Theresa's  face. 

It  was  impossible  for  Emily  not  to  sympathize 
with  a  grief  so  genuine.  "  Poor  girl,"  she  thought, 
"  she  can  no  more  help  being  a  snob  than  she  can 
help  being  a  brunette."  And  she  said  aloud  in  a 
gentle  voice  :  "  What  have  you  thought  of  doing  ?  " 

"  I've  got  to  marry,"  answered  Theresa.  "And 
marry  quick.  And  marry  money." 

A  queer  look  came  into  Emily's  face  at  this  re 
statement  of  her  own  attempted  solution  of  the 
Stoughton  problem.  Theresa  misunderstood  the 
look.  "  You  are  so  unsympathetic,"  she  said, 
lighting  a  cigarette. 

Emily  was  putting  on  her  hat.  "  No — not  un 
sympathetic,"  she  replied.  "Anything  but  that. 
Only — you  are  healthy  and  strong  and  capable, 
Theresa.  Why  should  you  sell  yourself  ?  " 


FURTHER    EXPLORATION.     83 

"  Oh,  I  know — you  imagine  you  think  it  fine  and 
dignified  to  work  for  one's  living.  But  in  the 
bottom  of  your  heart  you  know  better.  You  know 
it  is  not  refined  and  womanly — that  it  means  that 
a  woman  has  been  beaten,  has  been  unable  to 
get  a  man  to  support  her  as  a  lady  should  be  sup 
ported." 

Emily  faced  her  and,  as  she  put  on  her  gloves, 
said  in  a  simple,  good-tempered  way :  "  I  admit 
that  I'm  conventional  enough  at  times  and  discour 
aged  enough  at  times  to  feel  that  it  would  be  a 
temptation  if  some  man — not  too  disagreeable — were 
to  offer  to  take  care  of  me  for  life.  But  I'm  trying 
to  outgrow  it,  trying  to  come  up  to  a  new  ideal  of 
self-respect.  And  I  believe,  Theresa,  that  the  new 
ideal  is  better  for  us.  Anyhow  in  the  circum 
stances,  -it's  certainly  wiser  and — and  safer." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  Marlowe  ? " 
Theresa  thrust  at  her  with  deliberate  suddenness 
and  some  malice. 

Emily  kept  the  colour  out  of  her  face,  but  her 
eyes  betrayed  to  Theresa  that  the  thrust  had 
reached.  "  Well,  what  about  Marlowe  ?  "  She 
decided  to  drop  evasion  and  was  at  once  free  from 
embarrassment. 

"  He'll  not  marry  you.  He  isn't  a  marrying 
man." 

"  And  why  should  he  marry  me  ?  And  why 
should  I  marry  him  ?  I  have  no  wish  to  be  tied. 
It  was  necessity  that  forced  me  to  be  free  ;  but  I 
know  more  certainly  every  day  that  it  isn't  neces- 


84       A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

sity  that  will  keep  me  free.  You  see,  Theresa,  I 
don't  hate  work,  as  you  do.  I  feel  that  every  one 
has  to  work  anyhow,  and  I  prefer  to  work  for  myself 
and  be  paid  for  it,  rather  than  to  be  some  man's* 
housekeeper  and  get  my  wages  as  if  they  were 
charity." 

"  If  I  married,  you  may  be  sure  I'd  be  no  man's 
housekeeper,"  said  Theresa,  with  a  toss  of  the  head. 

"  I  was  making  the  position  as  dignified  as  pos 
sible.  Suppose  you  found  after  marriage  that  you 
didn't  care  for  your  husband ;  or  suppose  you  de 
liberately  married  for  money.  I  should  say  that 
mere  housekeeper  would  be  enviable  in  compari 
son." 

"  There's  a  good  deal  of  pretence  about  that,  isn't 
there,  honestly  ?  "  Theresa  was  laughing  disagree 
ably.  "  It's  a  thoroughly  womanish  remark.  But 
it's  a  remark  to  make  to  a  man,  not  when  two 
women  who  understand  woman-nature  are  talking 
quietly,  with  no  man  to  overhear." 

"Certainly  I've  known  a  great  many  women, 
nice  women,  who  seemed  to  be  living  quite  com 
fortably  and  contentedly  with  husbands  they  did  not 
in  the  least  like.  And  I  am  no  better,  no  more 
sensitive  than  other  women.  Still — I  feel  as  I  say. 
Let's  call  it  a  masculine  quality  in  me.  I  doubt  if 
there  are  many  husbands  who  live  with  wives  they 
don't  like — like  a  little  for  the  time,  at  any  rate." 

"  I've  often  thought  of  that.  It's  the  most  satis 
factory  thing  about  being  a  woman  and  having  a 
man  in  love  with  one.  One  knows,  as  a  man  never 


FURTHER    EXPLORATION.    85 

can  know  about  a  woman,  that  he  means  at  least 
part  of  it.  But  you  ought  to  be  at  your  beloved 
office.  You  don't  think  I'm  so  horribly  horrid,  do 
you  ?  " 

Emily  stood  behind  Theresa  and  put  her  arms 
around  her  shoulders.  "  You've  a  right  to  feel  about 
yourself  and  do  with  yourself  as  you  please,"  she 
said.  "  And  in  the  ways  that  are  important  to  me, 
you  are  the  most  generous,  helpful  girl  in  the 
world." 

"  Well,  i  don't  believe  I'm  mean.  But  what  is  a 
woman  to  do  in  such  a  hard  world  ?  " 

"  Go  to  the  office,"  said  Emily.  She  patted 
Theresa's  cheek  encouragingly.  "  Put  off  being 
blue,  dear,  until  the  last  minute.  Then  perhaps 
you  won't  need  to  be  blue  or  won't  have  time. 
Good-bye!" 

What  was  she  going  to  do  about  Marlowe  ?  She 
began  to  think  of  it  as  she  left  the  house,  and  she 
was  still  debating  it  as  she  entered  the  Democrat 
building  and  saw  him  waiting  for  the  elevator. 

"  Just  whom  I  wish  to  see,"  he  began.  "  No,  not 
for  that  reason — altogether,"  he  went  on  audaciously 
answering  her  thought,  as  if  she  had  spoken  it  or 
looked  it,  when  she  had  done  neither.  "  This  is 
business.  I'm  going  to  Pittsburg  to  get  specials  on 
the  strike.  Canfield's  sending  you  along." 

"Why?"  Resentment  was  rising  in  her.  How 
could  he,  how  dare  he,  advertise  her  to  the  Manag 
ing  Editor  thus  falsely  ? — "  Why  should  he  send 
me?" 


86       A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

"  Because  I  asked  him.  He  opposed  it,  but  I 
finally  persuaded  him.  I  wanted  you  for  my  own 
sake.  Incidentally  I  saw  that  it  was  a  chance  for 
you.  I  laid  it  on  rather  strong  about  your  talents, 
and  so  you've  simply  got  to  give  a  good  account  of 
yourself." 

",I  cannot  go,"  she  said  coldly.  "  It's  Impos 
sible." 

They  went  into  the  elevator.  "  Come  up  to  the 
Managing  Editor's  office  with  me,"  he  said.  He 
motioned  her  into  a  seat  in  Canfield's  anteroom 
and  sat  beside  her.  "  What  is  the  ^matter  ? "  he 
asked.  "  Let  us  never  be  afraid  to  tell  each  other 
the  exact  truth." 

"  How  could  I  go  out  there  alone  with  you? 
The  whole  office,  everybody  we  meet  there,  would  be 
talking  about  us." 

"  I  see,"  he  said  with  raillery.  "You  thought  I 
had  sacrificed  your  reputation  in  my  eagerness  to 
get  you  within  easy  reach  of  my  wiles  ?  Well,  per 
haps  I  might  have  done  it  in  some  circumstances. 
But  in  this  case  that  happens  not  to  have  been  my 
idea.  I  remembered  what  you  have  for  the  moment 
forgotten — that  you  are  on  the  staff  of  the  Demo 
crat.  I  got  you  the  assignment  to  do  part  of  this 
strike.  My  private  reasons  for  doing  so  are  not  in 
the  matter  at  all.  You  may  rest  assured  that,  if  I 
had  not  thought  you'd  send  good  despatches  and 
make  yourself  stronger  on  the  paper  and  justify  my 
insistence,  I  should  not  have  interfered." 

She  sat  silent,  ashamed  of  the  exhibition  of  vanity 


FURTHER    EXPLORATION.     87 

and  suspicion  into  which  she  had  been  hurried.  "  I 
beg  your  pardon,"  she  said  at  last, 

"  I  love  you,"  he  answered  in  a  low  voice.  "And 
those  three  little  words  mean  more  to  me — than  I 
thought  they  could  mean.  Let  us  go  in  to  see 
Canfield." 

u  I  don't  in  the  least  trust  Marlowe's  judgment 
about  you,  now  that  I've  seen  you,"  said  Mr.  Can- 
field — polite,  pale,  thin  of  face,  with  a  sharp  nose ; 
his  dark  circled  eyes  betrayed  how  restlessly  and 
sleeplessly  his  mind  prowled  through  the  world  in 
the  daily  search  for  the  newest  news.  "  But  my 
own  judgment  is  gone  too.  So  if  you  please,  go 
to  Furnaceville  for  us."  He  dropped  his  drawing- 
room  tone  and  poured  out  a  flood  of  instructions — 
"  Send  us  what  you  see — what  you  really  see.  If 
you  see  misery,  send  it.  If  not,  for  heaven's  sake, 
don't  '  fake  '  it.  Put  humour  in  your  stuff — all  the 
humour  you  possibly  can — '  fake '  that,  if  necessary. 
But  it  won't  be  necessary,  if  you  have  real  eyes.  Go 
to  the  workmen's  houses.  Look  all  through  them — 
parlours,  bedrooms,  kitchen.  Look  at  the  grocer's 
bills  and  butcher's.  Tell  what  their  clothes  cost. 
Describe  their  children.  Talk  to  their  children. 
Make  us  see  just  what  kind  of  people  these  are  that 
;  are  making  such  a  stir.  You've  a  great  opportunity. 
Don't  miss  it.  And  don't,  don't,  don't,  do  '  fine 
writing.'  No  'literature' — just  life — men,  women, 
children.  Here's  an  order  for  a  hundred  dollars. 
If  you  run  short,  Marlowe  will  telegraph  you 
more." 


88       A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

"Then  we  don't  go  together  after  all?  "  she  said 
to  Marlowe,  as  they  left  Canfield's  office. 

"  I'm  sorry  you're  to  be  disappointed,"  he  replied, 
mockingly. ,  "  I  stay  in  Pittsburg  for  the  present. 
You  go  out  to  the  mills — out  to  Furnaceville  first." 

"  Where  the  militia  are  ?  " 

"  Yes — they're  expecting  trouble  there  next  week. 
I'll  probably  be  on  in  a  day  or  so.  But  I  must  see 
several  people  in  Pittsburg  first.  You'll  have  the 
artist  with  you,  though.  Try  to  keep  him  sober. 
But  if  he  will  get  drunk,  turn  him  adrift.  He'U 
only  hamper  you." 

Emily  was  in  a  fever  as  she  cashed  the  order  and 
went  up  town  to  pack  a  small  trunk  and  catch  the 
six  o'clock  train.  Going  on  an  important  mission 
thus  early  in  her  career  as  a  working-woman  would 
have  been  exciting  enough,  however  quiet  the  oc 
casion.  But  going  among  militia  and  rioters,  going 
unchaperoned  with  two  men,  going  the  wildest 
part  of  the  excursion  with  one  man  and  he  an  ar 
tist  of  unsteady  habits  who  would  need  watching — 
she  could  not  grasp  it.  However,  an  hour  after 
they  were  settled  in  the  Pullman,  she  had  forgotten 
everything  except  the  work  she  was  to  do — or  fail 
to  do.  Indeed,  it  had  already  begun.  Marlowe 
brought  with  him  a  big  bundle  of  newspapers,  and 
a  boy  from  the  Democrat's  Philadelphia  office  came 
to  the  station  there,  and  gave  him  another  and 
bigger  bundle. 

"  I'm  reading  up,"  said  Marlowe,  "  and  it  won't 
do  you  any  harm  to  do  the  same.  Then,  when  we 


FURTHER    EXPLORATION.    89 

arrive,  we'll  know  all  that's  been  going  on,  and  we'll 
be  able  to  step  right  into  it  without  delay." 

The  artist  went  to  the  smoking  compartment. 
She  and  Marlowe  attacked  the  papers.  Both  read 
until  dinner,  and  again  after  dinner  until  the  berths 
'were  made.  When  they  talked  it  was  of  the  strike. 
Marlowe  neither  by  word  nor  by  look  indicated 
that  he  was  conscious  of  any  but  a  purely  profes 
sional  bond  between  them.  And  she  soon  felt  as 
he  acted — occasionally  hoping  that  he  did  not  alto 
gether  feel  as  he  acted,  but  was  restraining  himself 
through  fine  instinct. 

When  they  separated  at  Pittsburg,  and  she  and 
the  artist  were  on  the  way  in  the  chill  morning  to 
the  train  for  Furnaceville,  she  remembered  that  he 
had  not  shown  the  slightest  anxiety  about  the  peril 
into  which  she  was  going — and  going  by  his  ar 
rangement.  But  she  was  soon  deep  in  the  Pitts- 
burg  morning  papers,  her  mind  absorbed  in  the 
battle  between  brain-workers  and  brawn-workers  of 
which  she  was  to  be  a  witness.  She  was  impatient 
to  arrive,  impatient  to  carry  out  the  suggestions 
which  her  imagination  had  evolved  from  what  she 
had  been  reading.  To  her  the  strike,  with  its  anxi 
eties  and  perils  for  thousands,  meant  only  her  own 
opportunity,  as  she  noted  with  some  self-reproach. 

"  I  hope  they'll  get  licked,"  said  the  artist. 

"Who?"  asked  Emily,  looking  at  him  more 
carefully  than  she  had  thus  far,  and  remembering 
that  he  had  not  been  introduced  to  her  and  that 
she  did  not  know  his  name. 


90       A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

"  The  workingmen,  of  course,"  he  replied.  "  I 
know  them.  My  father  was  one  of  'em.  I  came 
from  this  neighbourhood." 

"  I  should  think  your  sympathies  would  be  with 
them."  Emily  was  coldly  polite.  She  did  not  like 
the  young  man's  look  of  coarse  dissipation — dull 
eyes,  clouded  skin,  and  unhealthy  lips  and  teeth. 

"  That  shows  you  don't  know  them.  They  are 
the  most  unreasonable  lot,  and  if  they  had  the 
chance  they'd  be  brutal  tyrants.  They  have  no 
respect  for  brains." 

"  But  they  might  be  right  in  this  case.  I  don't 
say  that  they  are.  It's  so  difficult  to  judge  what  is 
right  and  what  wrong." 

"  You  may  be  sure  they're  wrong.  My  father 
was  always  wrong.  Why,  if  he  and  his  friends  had 
been  able  to  carry  out  all  they  used  to  talk,  the 
whole  world  would  be  a  dead  level  of  savages. 
They  used  to  call  everybody  who  didn't  do  manual 
labour  a  *  parasite  on  the  toiling  masses.'  As  if  the 
toiling  masses  would  have  any  toiling  to  do  to  en 
able  them  to  earn  bread  and  comfortable  homes  for 
themselves  if  it  were  not  for  the  brain-workers*" 

"  Oh,  it  seems  to  me  that  we're  all  toilers  together, 
each  in  his  own  way.  Perhaps  it's  because  I'm  too 
stupid  to  understand  it,  but  I  don't  think  much  of 
theories  about  these  things." 

The  train  stopped,  the  brakeman  shouted,  "  Fur- 
naceville  ! "  Emily  and  the  artist  descended  to  the 
station  platform,  there  to  be  eyed  searchingly  by  a 
crowd  of  roughly  dressed  men  with  scowling  faces. 


FURTHER    EXPLORATION.    91 

When  the  train  had  moved  on  without  discharging 
the  load  of  non-union  workers  they  were  expecting, 
their  faces  relaxed  and  they  became  a  cheerful  crowd 
of  Americans.  They  watched  the  "  lady  from  the 
city,"  with  respectful,  fascinated  side-glances.  Those 
nearest  her  looked  aimlessly  but  earnestly  about,  as 
if  hoping  to  see  or  to  imagine  some  way  of  being 
of  service  to  her.  Through  the  crowd  pushed  a 
young  man,  whom  Emily  at  once  knew  was  of  the 
newspaper  profession. 

"  Is  this  Miss  Bromfield  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Emily,  "  from  the  New  York  Demo 
crat." 

"  My  name  is  Holyoke.  I'm  the  Pittsburg  cor 
respondent  of  the  Democrat.  Mr.  Marlowe  tele 
graphed  me  to  meet  you  and  see  that  you  did  not 
get  into  any  danger,  and  also  to  engage  rooms  for 
you." 

Emily  beamed  upon  Mr.  Holyoke.  Marlowe  had 
thought  of  her — had  been  anxious  about  her. 
And  instead  of  saying  so,  he  had  acted.  "  Thank 
you  so  much,"  she  said.  "  This  gentleman  is  from 
the  Democrat  also." 

"  My  name  is  Camp,"  said  the  artist,  making  a 
gesture  toward  the  unwieldy  bundle  of  drawing 
sheets  wrapped  flat  which  he  carried  under  his  arm. 

"  I  have  arranged  for  you  at  the  Palace  Hotel," 
continued  Holyoke.  "  Don't  build  your  hopes  too 
high  on  that  name.  I  took  back-rooms  on  the 
second  floor  because  the  hotel  is  just  across  an  open 
space  from  the  entrance  to  the  mills." 


92       A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

Emily  thought  a  moment  on  this  location  and  its 
reason,  then  grew  slightly  paler.  Holyoke  looked 
at  her  with  the  deep  sympathy  which  a  young  man 
must  always  feel  for  the  emotions  of  a  young  and 
good-looking  woman.  "  If  there  is  any  trouble,  it'll 
be  over  quickly  once  it  begins,"  he  said,  "  and  you 
can  easily  keep  out  of  the  way." 

They  climbed  a  dreary,  rough  street,  lined  with 
monotonous  if  comfortable  cottages.  It  was  a 
depressing  town,  as  harsh  as  the  iron  by  which  all 
of  its  inhabitants  lived.  "  People  ought  to  be  well 
paid  to  live  in  such  a  place  as  this,"  said  Emily. 

"  I  don't  see  how  they  stand  it,"  Holyoke  replied. 
"  But  the  local  paper  has  an  editorial  against  the 
militia  this  morning,  and  it  speaks  of  the  town  as 
*  our  lovely  little  city,  embowered  among  the  moun 
tains,  the  home  of  beauty  and  refinement.' " 

The  Palace  was  a  three-story  country-town  hotel, 
with  the  usual  group  of  smoking  and  chewing 
loungers  impeding  the  entrance.  Emily  asked 
Holyoke  to  meet  her  in  the  small  parlour  next  to  the 
office  in  half  an  hour. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

SEEN  FROM  A  BARRICADED  WINDOW. 

SHE  was  in  the  parlour  when    Holyoke  re 
turned.     The    loungers    and    her    fellow- 
guests  had  been  wandering  through    the 
room   to   inspect   her — "  the   lady  writer 
from    New   York."     She  herself   was  ab 
sorbed  in  the  view  of  the  mills  rising  above  a  stock 
ade    fence    not   five   hundred    feet   away,    across  a 
flagged  public  square.     There  were  three  entrances, 
and  up  and  down  in  front  of  each  marched  a  soldier 
with  a  musket  at  shoulder-arms.     In  each  entrance 
Emily   saw   queer-looking   little    guns    on    wheels. 
Their  tubes  and  mountings  flashed  in  the  sunlight. 
"  What  kind  of  cannon  are  those  ?  "  she  asked. 
"They're     machine-guns,"    explained    Holyoke. 
"  You  put  in  a  belt  full  of  cartridges,  aim  the  muz 
zle  at  the  height  of  a  man's  middle  or  calves  as  the 
case   may  be.     Then  you  turn  the  crank  and  the 
muzzle  waggles  to  and   fro  across  the  line  of  the 
mob  and  begins  to  sputter  out  bullets — about  fifteen 
hundred  a  minute.     And  down  go  the  rioters  like 
wheat   before   a  scythe.     They're  beauties — those 
guns." 

Emily  looked    from    Holyoke   to   the  guns,  but 
she  could    not    conceive  his    picture.      It   seemed 


94       A    WOMAN    VENTURES 

impossible  that  this  scene  of  peace,  of  languor, 
could  be  shifted  to  a  scene  of  such  terror  as  some 
of  the  elements  in  it  ought  to  suggest.  How 
could  these  men  think  of  killing  each  other  ?  Why 
should  that  soldier  from  the  other  end  of  the  State 
leave  his  home  to  come  and  threaten  to  shoot  his 
fellow  citizen  whom  he  did  not  know,  whose  town 
he  had  not  seen  until  yesterday,  and  in  whose  griev 
ance,  real  or  fancied,  he  had  no  interest  or  part? 
She  felt  that  this  was  the  sentimental,  unreasoning, 
narrow  view  to  take.  But  now  that  she  was  face  to 
face  with  the  possibility  of  bloodshed,  broad  princi 
ples  grew  vague,  unreal ;  and  the  actualities  before 
her  eyes  and  filling  her  horizon  seemed  all-impor 
tant. 

She  and  Holyoke  wandered  about  the  town,  he 
helping  her  quickly  to  gather  the  materials  for  her 
first  "  special,"  her  impression  of  the  town  and  its 
people  and  their  feelings  and  of  the  stockaded  mills 
with  the  soldiers  and  guns — her  supplement  to 
the  strictly  news  account  Holyoke  would  send. 
Camp  accompanied  them,  making  sketches.  He 
went  back  to  the  hotel  in  advance  of  them  to  draw 
several  large  pictures  to  be  sent  by  the  night  mail 
that  they  might  reach  New  York  in  time  for  the 
paper  of  the  next  day  but  one.  Toward  four 
o'clock  Emily  shut  herself  in  her  room,  and  began 
her  first  article. 

An  hour  of  toil  passed  and  she  had  not  yet  made 
a  beginning.  She  was  wrought  to  a  high  pitch  of 
nervous  terror.  "Suppose  I  should  fail  utterly? 


A  BARRICADED    WINDOW.   95 

Can  it  be  possible  that  I  shall  be  unable  to  write 
anything  at  all  ?  "  The  floor  was  strewn  with  sheets 
of  paper,  a  sentence,  a  few  sentences — failed  begin 
nings — written  on  each.  Her  hands  were  grimed 
with  lead  dust  from  sharpened  and  resharpened 
pencils.  There  was  a  streak  of  black  on  her  left 
cheek.  Her  hair  was  coming  down — as  it  seemed 
to  her,  the  forewarning  of  complete  mental  collapse. 
She  rose  and  paced  the  floor  in  what  was  very 
nearly  an  agony  of  despair. 

There  was  a  knock  and  she  opened  the  door  to 
take  in  a  telegram.  It  was  from  the  Managing 
Editor: 

If  there  should  be  trouble  to-night,  please  help  Holyoke  all 
you  can.  Do  not  be  afraid  of  duplicating  his  stuff. 

The  Democrat. 

\ 

This  put  her  in  a  panic.  She  began  to  sob  hys 
terically.  •'  What  possessed  Marlowe  to  drag  me 
into  this  scrape  ?  And  they  expect  me  to  do  a 
man's  work !  Oh,  how  could  I  have  been  such  a 
fool  as  to  undertake  this  ?  I  can't  do  it !  I  shall 
be  disgraced  ! " 

She  washed  her  face  and  hands  and  put  her  hair 
in  order.  She  was  so  desperate  that  her  sense  of 
humour  was  not  aroused  by  the  sight  of  her  absurdly 
tragic  expression.  She  sat  at  the  table  and  began 
again.  She  had  just  written  : 

"  The  shining  muzzles  of  six  machine-guns  and  the  spotless 
new  uniforms  of  the  three  soldiers  that  march  up  and  down  on 
guard  at  the  mill  stockade  are  the  most  conspicuous " 


96      A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

when  there  was  a  knock  and  her  door  was  flung 
open.  She  started  up,  her  eyes  wide  with  alarm, 
her  cheeks  blanched,  her  lips  apart,  her  throat  ready 
to  release  a  scream.  It  was  only  Holyoke. 

"  Beg  pardon,"  he  gasped  out.  "  No  time  for 
ceremony.  The  company  is  bringing  a  gang  of 
*  scabs  '  through  the  mountains  on  foot.  The  strik 
ers  are  on  to  it.  There'll  be  a  fight  sure.  Don't 
stir  out  of  your  room,  no  matter  what  you  hear. 
If  the  hotel's  in  any  danger,  I'll  let  you  know. 
Camp'll  be  looking  out  for  you  too — and  the  other 
newspaper  boys.  As  soon  as  it's  over,  I'll  come. 
Sit  tight — remember!  " 

He  rushed  away.  Emily  looked  at  her  chaos  of 
failures.  Of  what  use  to  go  on  now — now,  when 
real  events  were  impending?  From  her  window 
she  could  see  several  backyards.  In  one,  three 
children  were  making  mud  pies  and  a  woman  was 
hanging  out  the  wash — blue  overalls,  red  flannel, 
and  cheap  muslin  underclothes,  polkadot  cotton 
slips  and  dresses  in  many  sizes,  yarn  stockings  and 
socks,  white  and  gray. 

Crack  ! 

The  woman  paused  with  one  ieg  of  a  pair  of 
overalls  unpinned.  The  children  straightened  up, 
feeling  for  each  other  with  mud-bedaubed  hands. 
Emily  felt  as  if  her  ears  were  about  to  burst  with 
the  strain  of  the  silence. 

Crack!  Crack!  Crack  1  An  answering  volley  of 
oaths.  A  scream  of  derision  and  rage  from  a  mob. 

The  children  fled   into  the  house.     The  woman 


A  BARRICADED   WINDOW.    97 

gathered  in  a  great  armful  of  clothes  from  the  line 
as  if  a  rain  storm  had  suddenly  come.  She  ran, 
entangled  in  her  burden,  her  thick  legs  in  drab  stock 
ings  interfering  one  with  the  other.  Emily  jumped 
to  her  feet. 

"  I  cannot  stay  here,"  she  exclaimed.  "  I  must 
see  !  " 

She  flew  down  the  hall  to  the  front  of  the  house. 
There  was  a  parlour  and  Camp's  paper  and  drawing 
materials  were  scattered  about.  He  was  barricad 
ing  a  window  with  the  bedding  from  a  room  to  the 
rear.  He  glanced  at  her.  "  Go  back  !  "  he  said  in  a 
loud,  harsh  voice.  "  This  is  no  place  for  a  woman." 

"  But  it's  just  the  place  for  a  reporter,"  she  re- 
plied.  "  I'll  help  you." 

They  arranged  the  mattresses  so  that,  sheltered 
by  them  and  the  thick  brick  wall,  they  could  peer 
out  of  the  window  from  either  side. 

The  square  was  empty.  The  gates  in  the  stock 
ade  were  closed.  In  each  of  the  barricaded  upper 
windows  of  the  mill  appeared  the  glittering  barrels 
of  several  rifles  at  different  heights, 

"  See  that  long,  low  building  away  off  there  to 
the  left?"  said  Camp.  "The  'scabs'  and  their 
militia  guard  are  behind  it.  The  strikers  are  in  the 
houses  along  this  side  of  the  street.' 

Crack  !  A  bullet  crashed  into  the  mirror  hanging 
on  the  rear  wall  of  their  parlour.  It  had  cut  a 
clean  hole  through  the  window  pane  without  shiver 
ing  it  and  had  penetrated  the  mattresses  as  if  they 
had  been  a  single  thickness  of  paper. 


98       A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

"Now  will  you  go  back  to  your  room  ?"  angrily 
shouted  Camp,  although  he  was  not  three  feet  from 
her. 

"  Why  are  they  firing  at  the  hotel  ?  "  was  Emily's 
'reply. 

"Bad  aim — that's  all.  The  strikers  aren't  here. 
That  must  have  been  an  answer  to  a  bullet  from 
next  door.  The  soldiers  shoot  whenever  a  striker 
shows  himself  to  aim." 

Crack !  There  was  a  howl  of  derision  in  reply. 
"  That's  the  way  they  let  the  soldiers  know  it  was 
a  close  shot  but  a  miss,"  said  Camp. 

A  man  ran  from  behind  a  building  to  the  right 
and  in  front  of  the  stockade,  and  started  across  the 
open  toward  where  the  strikers  were  entrenched. 
He'was  a  big,  rough-looking  fellow.  As  he  came, 
Emily  could  see  his  face — dark,  scowling,  set. 

Crack  ! 

The  man  ran  more  swiftly.  There  was  a  howl  of 
delight  from  the  strikers.  But,  a  few  more  leaps 
and  he  stumbled,  flung  up  his  hands,  pitched  for 
ward,  fell,  squirmed  over  so  that  he  lay  face  upward. 
His  legs  and  arms  were  drawing  convulsively  up 
against  his  body  and  shooting  out  to  their  full 
length  again.  His  face  was  twisting  and  grew  shiny 
with  sweat  and  froth.  A  stream  of  blood  oozed 
from  under  him  and  crawled  in  a  thin,  dark  rivulet 
across  the  flagging  to  a  crack,  then  went  no  further. 
He  turned  his  face,  a  wild  appeal  for  help  in  it, 
toward  the  house  whence  he  had  come. 

At  once  from  behind  that  shelter  ran  a  second 


A    BARRICADED    WINDOW,  99 

man,  younger  than  the  first.  He  had  a  revolver  in 
his  right  hand.  Emily  could  plainly  see  his 
clinched  jaws,  his  features  distorted  with  fury. 
His  lips  were  drawn  back  from  his  teeth  like  an 
angry  bulldog's. 

"He's  a  madman!"  shrieked  Camp.  "  He  can 
do  nothing !  " 

"  He's  a  hero,"  panted  Emily. 

Crack ! 

He  stopped  short.  Emily  saw  his  face  change  in 
expression — from  fury  to  wonder,  from  wonder  to 
fear,  from  fear  to  a  ghastly,  green-white  pallor  of 
pain  and  hate.  He  tossed  his  arms  high  above  his 
head.  The  revolver  flew  from  his  hand.  Then, 
within  a  few  feet  of  the  still-twitching  body  of  the 
other,  he  crashed  down.  The  blood  spurted  from 
his  mouth,  drenching  his  face.  He  worked  himself 
over  and  around,  half  rose,  wiped  his  face  with  his 
sleeve,  fell  back.  Emily  saw  that  he  was  looking 
toward  the  shelter,  his  features  calm — a  look'of  love 
and  longing,  a  look  of  farewell  for  some  one  con 
cealed  there. 

And  now  a  third  figure  ran  from  the  shelter  into 
that  zone  of  death — a  boyish  figure,  lithe  and  swift. 
As  it  came  nearer  she  saw  that  it  was  a  youth,  a 
mere  lad,  smooth  faced,  with  delicate  features.  He 
too  carried  a  revolver,  but  the  look  in  his  face  was 
love  and  anguish. 

Crack ! 

The  boy  flung  the  revolver  from  him  and  ran  on. 
One  arm  was  swinging  limp.  Now  he  was  at  the 


loo    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

side  of  the  second  man.  He  was  just  kneeling, 
just  stretching  out  his  hand  toward  the  dear  dead — 

Crack! 

He  fell  forward,  his  arm  convulsively  circling  the 
head  of  his  beloved.  As  he  fell,  his  hat  slipped 
away  and  a  mass  of  brown  hair  uncoiled  and  show 
ered  down,  hiding  both  their  faces. 

"  Oh  !  "  Emily  drew  back,  sick  and  trembling. 
She  glanced  at  Camp.  He  looked  like  a  maniac. 
His  eyes  bulged,  bloodshot.  His  nostrils  stood 
out  stiff.  His  long  yellow  teeth  were  grinding  and 
snapping. 

"  God  damn  them  !  "  he  shrieked.  "  God  damn 
the  hell-hounds  of  the  capitalists!  Murderers! 
Murderers  !  killing  honest  workingmen  and  women  !" 

And  as  Emily  crouched  there,  too  weak  to  lift  her 
self,  yet  longing  to  see  those  corpse-strewn,  blood 
stained  stones — the  stage  of  that  triple  tragedy  of 
courage,  self-sacrifice,  love  and  death — Camp  raved 
on,  poured  out  curses  upon  capitalists  and  militia. 
Camp  ! — who  that  very  morning  had  been  trying  to 
impress  Emily  with  his  superiority  to  his  origin,  his 
contempt  of  these  "  mere  machines  for  the  use  of 
men  of  brains.*' 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A   RISE  AND  A  FALL. 

WHEN  Emily  looked  again  two  of  the 
strikers,  one  waving  a  white  rag  at 
the  end  of   a  pole,  were  advancing 
toward  the  limp  bodies  in  the  centre 
of   the   square.     They   made    three 
trips.     Neither  shots  nor  shouts  broke  the  silence. 
Soon  the  only  evidences  of  the  tragedy  were  the 
pools  and  streaks  of  blood  on  the  flagging. 

Camp  was  once  more  at  his  drawing,  rapidly  out 
lining  a  big  sketch  of  the  scene  they  had  witnessed. 
"  Good  stuff,  wasn't  it  ?  "  he  said,  looking  up  with 
an  apologetic  grin  and  flush.  "  It  couldn't  have 
been  better  if  it  had  been  fixed  for  a  theatre." 

"  It'll  make  a  good  story,"  replied  Emily,  strug 
gling  with  some  success  to  assume  the  calmly  pro 
fessional  air  and  tone.  "  I'm  going  to  my  room. 
If  I  hear  any  more  shots,  I'll  come  again.  When 
Mr.  Holyoke  returns,  please  tell  him  I'd  like  to  see 
him." 

She  had  rushed  through  that  hall  an  hour  before, 
a  panic-stricken  girl.  She  returned  a  woman,  con 
fident  of  herself.  She  had  seen  ;  she  had  felt ;  she 
had  lived.  She  sat  at  her  table,  and,  with  little 
hesitation,  wrote.  When  she  had  been  at  work  an 
hour  and  a  half,  Holyoke  interrupted  her. 


102    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

"  Oh,  I  see  you're  busy,"  he  began. 

"  I  wanted  to  say,"  said  Emily,  "  that  I  shall  send 
a  little  about  the  trouble  a  while  ago — quite  inde 
pendently  of  the  news,  you  know.  So,  just  write 
as  if  I  were  not  here  at  all." 

"All  right.  They'll  want  every  line  we  can  both 
send."  Holyoke  looked  at  her  with  friendly  anxiety. 
"  You  look  tired,"  he  said,  "  as  if  you'd  been  under 
a  strain.  It  must  have  been  an  awful  experience 
for  you,  sitting  here.  Don't  brother  to  write  any 
thing.  I'll  sign  both  our  names  to  my  despatch." 

"Thank  you,  but  I  couldn't  let  you  do  that. 
What  were  the  names  of  those  people  who  were 
killed  out  in  the  square  ?  " 

"  They  were  a  puddler  named  Jack  Farron,  and 
his  son  Tom,  and  Tom's  wife.  Tom  got  married 
only  last  week.  She  insisted  on  going  out  with 
him.  They  had  been  scouting,  and  had  news  that 
the  militia  were  moving  to  take  the  strikers  from 
the  rear  and  rout  them  out  of  their  position.  You 
heard  about  the  shooting?" 

"  No — I  saw  it,"  said  Emily.  "  Mr.  Camp  and  I 
watched  from  the  parlour  window.  Is  there  going 
to  be  more  trouble  ?  " 

"  Not  for  a  good  many  hours.  The  '  scabs  '  re 
treated,  and  won't  come  back  until  they're  sure  the 
way  is  clear." 

Emily  took  up  her  pencil  and  looked  at  her  pa 
per.  "  I'll  call  again  later,"  said  Holyoke,  as  he  de 
parted.  "  You  can  file  your  despatch  downstairs. 
The  Postal  telegraph  office  is  in  the  hotel." 


A    RISE    AND    A    FALL.      103 

She  wrote  about  four  thousand  words,  and  went 
over  her  "  copy"  carefully  three  times.  It  did  not 
please  her,  but  she  felt  that  she  had  told  the  facts, 
and  that  she  had  avoided  "  slopping  over  " — the 
great  offence  against  which  every  newspaper  man 
and  woman  who  had  given  her  advice  had  warned 
her.  She  filed  the  despatch  at  nine  o'clock. 

"  We  can  put  it  on  the  wire  at  once,"  said  the 
telegraph  manager.  "  We'll  get  a  loop  straight  into 
the  Democrat  office.  We  knew  you  people  would 
be  flocking  here,  and  so  we  provided  against  a  crush. 
We've  got  plenty  of  wires  and  operators." 

Emily  ate  little  of  the  dinner  that  had  been 
saved  for  her,  and  at  each  sudden  crash  from  the 
kitchen  where  noisy  servants  were  washing  dishes, 
her  nerves  leaped  and  the  blood  beat  heavily  against 
her  temples.  She  went  back  to  the  little  reception 
room  and  stood  at  the  window,  looking  out  into  the 
square.  In  the  bright  moonlight  she  saw  the  soldiers 
marching  up  and  down  before  the  entrance  to  the 
stockade.  The  open  space  between  it  and  her  was 
empty,  and  the  soft  light  flooded  round  the  great 
dark  stains  which  marked  the  site  of  the  tragedy. 

"  Why  aren't  you  in  bed  ?  "  It  was  Marlowe's 
voice,  and  it  so  startled  her  that  she  gave  a  low  cry 
'and  clasped  her  clinched  hands  against  her  breast. 
She  had  been  thinking  of  him.  The  death  of  those 
lovers,  its  reminder  of  the  uncertainty  of  life  and  of 
the  necessity  of  seizing  happiness  before  it  should 
escape  forever,  had  brought  him,  or,  rather,  love 
with  him  as  the  medium,  vividly  into  her  mind. 


104    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

"  You  frightened  me — I'm  seeing  ghosts  to-night,'* 
she  said.  "  How  did  you  reach  here  when  there  is 
no  train  ?  " 

"  Several  of  us  hired  a  special  and  came  down — 
just  an  engine  and  tender.  We  fancied  there  might 
be  more  trouble.  But  it's  all  over.  The  Union 
knows  it  can't  fight  the  whole  State,  and  the  Com 
pany  is  very  apologetic  for  the  killing  of  those  peo 
ple,  especially  the  woman.  Still,  her  death  may 
have  saved  a  long  and  bloody  strike.  That  must 
have  been  an  awful  scene  this  afternoon."  He  was 
talking  absently.  His  eyes,  his  thoughts  were  upon 
her,  slender,  pale,  yet  golden. 

Emily  briefly  described  what  she  had  seen. 

"  It's  a  pity  you  didn't  telegraph  an  account  of 
it.  Your  picture  of  it  would  have  been  better  than 
Holyoke's,  even  if  you  didn't  see  the  shooting." 

"  But  I  did  see  it !  " 

Marlowe's  look  became  dazed.  "  What  ? "  he 
said.  "  How  ?  Where  were  you  ?  " 

"  Upstairs — in  the  parlour.  I  was  so  fascinated  that 
I  forgot  to  be  afraid.  And  a  bullet  came  through 
the  window." 

He  made  a  gesture  as  if  to  catch  her  in  his  arms. 
Instead  he  took  her  hands  and  kissed  them  passion 
ately. 

"  I  never  dreamed  you  would  be  actually  in 
danger,"  he  said  pleadingly.  "  I  was  heedless — I — 
heedless  of  you — you  who  are  everything  to  me. 
Forgive  me,  dear." 

She  leaned  against  the  casement,  her  eyes  fixed 


A  RISE  AND  A  FALL.          105 

dreamily  upon  the  sky,  the  moonlight  making  her 
face  ethereal. 

"  Was  I  too  abrupt?"  he  asked.  "Have  I 
offended  in  saying  it  again  at  this  time?  "  His  ex 
aggerated,  nervous  anxiety  struck  him  as  absurd,  for 
him,  but  he  admitted  that  his  unprecedented  fear 
of  what  a  woman  might  think  of  him  was  real. 

"  No,"  she  answered.  "  But — I  must  go.  I'm 
very  tired.  And  I'm  beginning  to  feel  queer  and 
weak."  She  put  out  her  hand.  "  Good-night,"  she 
said,  her  eyes  down  and  her  voice  very  low. 

When  she  was  in  her  room  she  half-staggered  to 
the  bed.  "  I'll  rest  a  moment  before  I  undress," 
she  thought,  and  lay  down.  She  did  not  awaken 
until  broad  daylight.  She  looked  at  her  watch. 
"Ten  minutes  to  twelve — almost  noon !"  she  ex 
claimed.  She  had  been  asleep  twelve  hours.  As 
she  took  a  bath  and  dressed  again,  she  was  in  high 
spirits.  "  It's  good  to  be  alive,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"  to  be  alive,  to  be  young,  to  be  free,  to  be  loved, 
and  to — to  like  it." 

Was  she  in  love  with  Marlowe  ?  She  thought  so 
— or,  at  least,  she  was  about  to  be.  But  she  did 
not  linger  upon  that.  The  luxury  of  being  loved 
in  a  way  that  made  her  intensely  happy  was  enough. 
She  liked  to  think  of  his  arms  clasping  her.  She 
liked  him  to  touch  her.  She  liked  to  remember 
that  look  of  exalted  passion  in  his  eyes,  and  to 
know  that  it  was  glowing  there  for  her. 

The  late  afternoon  brought  news  that  the  strike 
had  been  settled  by  a  compromise.  Within  an  hour 


io6       A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

the  New  York  special  correspondents  were  on  the 
way  home.  At  Philadelphia  the  next  morning 
Emily  came  into  the  restaurant  car.  "This  way, 
Miss  Bromfield,"  said  the  steward,  with  a  low  bow. 
She  wondered  how  he  knew  her.  She  noticed  that 
the  answering  smiles  she  got  as  she  spoke  to  the 
newspaper  men  she  had  met  at  Furnaceville  were 
broader  than  the  occasion  seemed  to  warrant.  She 
glanced  at  herself  in  the  mirror  to  see  whether 
omission  or  commission  in  dressing  was  the  cause. 
Then  she  took  the  seat  Marlowe  had  reserved  for 
her,  opposite  himself. 

"  There  were  three  of  us  in  the  dressing-room 
making  it  as  disagreeable  for  each  other  as  possible 
after  the  usual  feminine  fashion/'  she  began,  and 
her  glance  fell  upon  the  first  page  of  the  Democrat 
of  the  day  before  ,which  Marlowe  was  holding  up. 
She  gasped  and  stared.  "Why!"  she  exclaimed, 
the  red  flaring  up  in  her  face,  "  where  did  they  get 
it  ?  It's  disgraceful !  " 

"  It "  was  a  large  reproduction  of  a  pen  and  ink 
sketch  of  herself.  Under  "  it  "  in  big  type  was  the 
line,  "  Emily  Bromfield,  the  Democrat's  Correspond 
ent  at  the  Strike."  Beside  "  it "  under  a  "  scare- 
head  "  was  the  main  story  of  the  strike,  and  the  last 
line  of  the  heading  read,  "  By  Emily  Bromfield." 
Then  followed  her  account  of  what  she  had  seen 
from  the  parlour  window.  What  with  astonish 
ment,  pleasure,  and  mortification  over  this  sudden 
brazen  blare  of  publicity  for  herself  and  her  work, 
she  was  on  the  verge  of  a  nervous  outburst. 


A   RISE  AND  A  FALL.       107 

"  Be  careful,"  said  Marlowe.  "  They're  all  look 
ing  at  you.  What  I  want. to  know  is  where  did 
they  get  that  sketch  of  you  in  a  dreamy,  thought 
ful  attitude  at  a  desk  covered  with  papers.  It 
looks  like  an  idyll  of  a  woman  journalist.  All  the 
out-of-town  papers  will  be  sure  to  copy  that.  But 
where  did  our  people  get  it  ?  " 

Just  then  Camp  came  through  on  his  way  to  the 
smoking  car.  "  Who  drew  this,  Camp  ? "  asked 
Marlowe,  stopping  him. 

Camp  looked  embarrassed  and  grinned.  "  I  made 
it  one  day  in  the  office,"  he  said  to  Emily.  "  They 
must  have  fished  it  out  of  my  desk  in  the  art  room." 

Emily  did  not  wish  to  hurt  his  feelings,  so  she  con 
cealed  her  irritation.  Marlowe  said  :  "  A  splendid 
piece  of  work !  Lucky  they  knew  about  it  and  got 
it  out." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Camp,  looking  appealingly  at 
Emily.  "  You're  not  offended  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  It  gave  me  a  turn,"  Emily  replied  evasively. 
Camp  took  her  smile  for  approval,  thanked  her  and 
went  on. 

"You  don't  altogether  like  your  fame?"  said 
Marlowe  with  a  teasing  expression.  "  But  you'll 
soon  get  used  to  it,  and  then  you'll  be  cross  if  you 
look  in  the  papers  and  don't  find  your  name  or  a 
picture  of  yourself.  That's  the  way  'newspaper 
notoriety '  affects  everybody.  They  first  loathe, 
then  endure,  then  pursue." 

"  Don't  mock  at  me,  please.  It's  good  in  a 
business  way,  isn't  it  ?  And  I'm  sure  the  picture 


io8    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

is  not  bad — in  fact,  it  makes  me  look  very — intel 
lectual.  And  as  they  printed  my  despatch,  that 
can't  have  been  so  horribly  bad.  Altogether  I'm 
beginning  to  be  reconciled  and  shall  presently  be 
delighted." 

"  You  can  get  copies  of  the  paper  ready  for  mail 
ing  in  the  business  office — a  reduction  on  large 
quantities,"  said  Marlowe.  "  And  you  won't  need 
to  unwrap  them  to  mark  where  your  friends  must 
look." 

Emily  was  glancing  at  her  story  with  pretended 
indifference.  "  It  makes  more  than  I  thought," 
she  said  carelessly,  giving  him  the  paper. 

"  Vanity  !  vanity  !  You  know  you  are  dying  to 
read  every  word  of  it.  I'll  wager  you'll  go  through 
it  a  dozen  times  once  you  are  alone.  We  always 
do— at  first." 

"  Well,  why  not  ?  It's  a  harmless  vanity  and  it 
ought  to  be  called  honest  pride.  And — I  owe  it  to 
you — all  to  you.  And  I'm  glad  it  is  to  you  that  I 
owe  it." 

At  the  office  she  was  the  centre  of  interest — for  a 
few  hours.  "  Isn't  she  a  perfect  picture?"  said 
Miss  Farwell  to  Miss  Gresham,  as  they  watched  her 
receiving  congratulations.  "  And  she  doesn't  ex 
aggerate  herself.  She  probably  knows  that  it  was 
her  looks  and  her  dresses  that  got  her  the  assign 
ment  and  that  make  them  think  she's  wonderful. 
She  really  didn't  write  it  so  very  well.  You  could 
tell  all  the  way  through  that  it  was  a  beginner, 
couldn't  you?  " 


A   RISE  AND  A   FALL.         109 

"  Of  course  it  wasn't  a  work  of  genius,"  admitted 
Miss  Gresham.  "  But  it  was  very  good  indeed." 

"A  story  like  that  simply  tells  itself."  Miss 
Farwell  used  envy's  most  judicial  tone.  "  It 
couldn't  be  spoiled." 

Miss  Gresham  and  Emily  went  uptown  together. 
"  I've  read  my  special  several  times,"  said  Emily, 
"  and  I  don't  feel  so  set  up  over  it  as  I  did  at  first. 
I  suspect  they  would  have  rewritten  it  if  it  had  not 
got  into  the  office  late." 

"  You  did  wonderfully  well,"  Miss  Gresham  as 
sured  her.  "And  you've  put  yourself  in  a  position 
where  your  work  will  be  noted  and,  if  it's  good, 
recognised.  The  hardest  thing  in  the  world  is  to 
get  disentangled  from  the  crowd  so  that  those  above 
are  able  to  see  one." 

The  routine  of  petty  assignments  into  which  she 
sank  again  was  wearisome  and  distasteful.  She  had 
expected  a  better  kind  of  work.  Instead,  she  got 
the  same  work  as  before.  As  Coleman  was  giving 
her  one  of  these  trifles,  he  looked  cautiously  round 
to  make  sure  that  no  one  was  within  hearing  dis 
tance,  then  said  in  a  low  voice :  "  Don't  blame  me 
for  giving  you  poor  assignments.  I  have  orders 
from  Mr.  Stilson — strict  orders." 

Emily  did  not  like  Coleman's  treachery  to  his 
superior,  but  her  stronger  feeling  was  anger  against 
Stilson.  "  Why  does  he  dislike  me?"  she  thought. 
"  What  a  mean  creature  he  is.  It  must  be  some 
queer  sort  of  jealous  envy."  She  laughed  at  herself 
for  this  vanity.  But  she  had  more  faith  in  it  than 


no     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

she  thought,  and  it  was  with  the  latent  idea  of  get 
ting  it  a  prop  that  she  repeated  to  Miss  Gresham 
what  Coleman  had  said.  "  Why  do  you  think  Mr. 
Stilson  told  him  that?'*  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,  I  can't  imagine,"  replied  Miss 
Gresham.  She  reflected  a  moment  and  then  turned 
her  head  so  that  Emily  could  not  see  her  eyes. 
She  thought  she  had  guessed  the  reason.  "  Stilson 
is  trying  to  save  her  from  the  consequences  of  her 
vanity,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  I  had  better  not  tell 
her,  as  it  would  do  no  good  and  might  make  her 
dislike  me."  And,  watching  Emily  more  closely, 
she  soon  discovered  that  premature  triumph  had 
been  a  little  too  much  for  her  good  sense.  Emily 
was  entertaining  an  opinion  of  herself  far  higher 

than  the  facts  warranted.     "  Stilson  is  doing  her  a 

53 

service,"   Miss  Gresham  thought,    as    Emily   com- 

* }  j-*  r  i 

plained  from  time  to  time  of  trifling  assignments. 
"  He'll  restore  her  point  of  view  presently," 

After  a  month  of  this  Stilson  called  her  into  his 
office.  He  stood  at  the  window,  tall  and  stern — he 
was  taller  than  Marlowe  and  dark ;  and  while  Mar- 

j   «iOv  I         "  OL>IOY    Y/Ol    5, 

lowe's  expression  was  one  of  good-humoured,  rather 
cynical  carelessness,  his  was  grave  and  haughty. 

Without  looking  at  her  he  began  :  "  Miss  Brom- 
field,  we've  been  giving  you  a  very  important  kind 
of  work — the  small  items.  They  are  the  test  of  a 
newspaper's  standard  of  perfection.  I'm  afraid  you 
don' 


and 


A  RISE  AND  A  FALL.         111 

saw  that  he  was  suffering  acute  embarrassment. 
"  It  isn't  easy  for  me  to  speak  to  you,"  he  went  on. 
"  But — it's  necessary.  At  first  you  did  well.  Now 
— you're  not  doing  well." 

There  was  a  long,  a  painful  silence.  Then  he 
suddenly  looked  at  her.  And  in  spite  of  herself, 
his  expression  melted  resentment  and  obstinacy. 
"  You  can  do  well  again,"  he  said.  "  Please  try." 

The  tone  of  the  "  Please  try  "  made  her  feel  his 
fairness  and  friendliness  as  she  had  not  felt  it  before. 
"  Thank  you,"  she  said  impulsively.  "  I  will  try." 
She  paused  at  the  door  and  turned.  "  Thank  you," 
she  said  again,  earnestly.  He  was  bending  over 
his  desk  and  seemed  to  be  giving  his  attention  to 
his  papers.  But  Emily  undersood  him  well  enough 
now  to  know  that  he  was  trying  to  hide  his  embar 
rassment.  When  she  was  almost  hidden  from  him 
by  the  closing  door,  she  heard  him  begin  to  speak. 
"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said,  showing  her  head 
round  the  edge  of  the  door,  "What  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  No  matter,"  he  replied,  and  she  thought  she 
saw,  rather  than  heard,  something  very  like  a  sigh. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

A  COMPROMISE  WITH  CONVENTIONALITY. 

MARLOWE    was     as    responsible    for 
Emily's     self-exaggeration     as     was 
Emily  herself.     He  had  been  envel 
oping  her  in  an  atmosphere  of  adula 
tion,  through   which  she    could  see 
clearly  and  sensibly  neither  him  nor  herself  nor  her 
affairs. 

When  she  first  appeared  he  was  deeply  entangled 
elsewhere.  But  at  once  with  the  adroitness  of  ex 
perience,  he  extricated  himself  and  boldly  advanced 
into  the  new  and  unprecedently  attractive  net  which 
fate  was  spreading  for  him.  He  was  of  those  men 
who  do  not  go  far  on  the  journey  without  a  woman, 
or  long  with  the  same  woman.  He  abhorred  mo 
notony  both  in  work  and  in  love ;  a  typical  im 
pressionist,  he  soon  found  one  subject,  whether  for 
his  mind  or  for  his  heart,  exhausted  and  wearisome. 
Emily  in  her  loneliness  and  youth,  yearning  for 
love  and  companionship,  was  so  frankly  attracted 
that  he  at  first  thought  her  as  easy  a  conquest  as 
had  been  the  women  who  dwelt  in  the  many  and 
brief  chapters  of  the  annals  of  his  conquering  career. 
But  he,  and  she  also,  to  her  great  surprise,  discov- 


A    COMPROMISE.  113 

ered  that,  while  she  had  cast  aside  most  convention 
ality  in  practice  and  all  conventionality  in  theory, 
there  remained  an  immovable  remnant.  And  this, 
fast  anchored  in  unreasoning  inherited  instinct, 
stubbornly  resisted  their  joint  attack.  In  former 
instances  of  somewhat  similar  discoveries,  he  had 
winged  swiftly,  and  gracefully,  away;  now,  to  his 
astonishment,  he  found  that  his  wings  were  snared. 
Without  intention  on  his  part,  without  effort  on 
her  part,  he  was  fairly  caught.  Nor  was  he  strug 
gling  against  the  toils. 

They  had  been  together  many  times  since  the 
return  from  Furnaceville.  And  usually  it  was  just 
he  and  she,  dining  in  the  open  air,  or  taking  long 
drives  or  walks,  or  sailing  the  river  or  the  bay.  But 
their  perplexed  state  of  mind  had  kept  them  from 
all  but  subtle  reference  to  the  one  subject  of  which 
both  were  thinking  more  and  more  intently  and  in 
tensely.  One  Jiight  they  were  driving  in  a  hansom 
after  a  dinner  on  the  Savoy  balcony — he  suddenly 
bent  and  kissed  the  long  sleeve  of  her  thin  summer 
dress  at  the  wrist.  "You  light  a  flame  that  goes 
dancing  through  my  veins,"  he  said.  "  I  wish  I 
could  find  new  words  to  put  it  in.  But  I've  only 
the  old  ones,  Emily — I  love  you  and  I  want  your 
love — I  want  you.  This  is  an  unconditional  surren 
der  and  I'm  begging  you  to  receive  it.  You  won't 
say  no,  will  you,  Emily  ?  " 

Her  eyes  were  brilliant  and  her  cheeks  pale.  But 
she  succeeded  in  controlling  her  voice  so  that  she 
could  put  a  little  mockery  into  her  tone  when  she 


114    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

said  :  "  What — you  !  You,  who  are  notoriously 
opposed  to  unconditional  surrender.  I  never 
expected  to  live  to  see  the  day  when  you  would 
praise  treason  and  proclaim  yourself  a  traitor." 

"  I  love  you,"  he  said — "  that's  all  the  answer  I 
can  make." 

"  And  only  a  few  days  ago  some  one  was  repeat 
ing  to  me  a  remark  of  yours — let  me  see,  how  did 
you  put  it  ?  Oh,  yes — '  love  is  a  bird  that  does  not 
sing  well  in  a  cage." 

"  I  said  it— and  I  meant  it,"  he  replied.  "  And  I 
love  you — that's  all.  I  still  believe  what  I  said,  but 
— please,  Emily,  dear — bring  the  cage  !  " 

The  mockery  in  her  face  gave  place  to  a  serious 
look.  "  I  wonder,"  she  said,  "  does  love  sing  at  all 
in  a  cage  ?  I've  never  known  an  instance,  though 
I've  read  and  heard  of  them.  But  they're  almost  all 
a  long  way  off,  or  a  long  time  ago,  or  among  old- 
fashioned  people." 

"  But  I'm  old-fashioned,  I  find — and  won't  you  be, 
dear?  And  I  think  we  might  teach  our  wild  bird 
to  sing  in  a  cage,  don't  you  ?  " 

Emily  made  no  answer  but  continued  to  watch 
the  dark  trees,  that  closed  in  on  either  side  of  the 
shining  drive. 

"Since  I've  known  you,  Emily,  I've  found  a 
new  side  to  my  nature — one  I  did  not  suspect  the 
existence  of.  Perhaps  it  didn't  exist  until  I  knew 
you." 

"  It  has  been  so  with  me,"  she  said.  She  had  been 
surprised  and  even  disquieted  by  the  upbursting  of 


A    COMPROMISE.  115 

/ 

springs  of  tenderness  and  gentleness  and  longing 
since  she  had  known  Marlowe. 

"  Do  you  care — a  little,  dear  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  nodded.    "  But  what  were  you  going  to  say  ?  " 

"I've  always  disliked  the  idea  of  marriage,"  he 
went  on.  "  There's  something  in  me — not  peculiar 
to  me,  I  imagine,  but  in  most  men  as  well — that 
revolts  at  the  idea  of  a  bond  of  any  kind  A  man 
falls  in  love  with  a  woman  or  a  woman  with  a  man. 
And  heretofore  I've  always  said  to  myself,  how  can 
they  know  that  love  will  last  ?  " 

"They  can't  know  it,"  replied  Emily.  "And 
when  they  pledge  themselves  to  keep  on  loving  and 
honouring,  they  must  know,  if  they  are  capable  of 
thinking,  that  they've  promised  something  they  had 
no  right  to  promise.  I  hate  to  be  bound.  I  love 
to  be  free.  Nothing,  nothing,  could  induce  me  to 
give  up  my  freedom." 

Marlowe  had  expected  that  she  would  gladly 
put  aside  her  idea  of  freedom  the  moment  he  an 
nounced  that  he  was  willing  to  sacrifice  his  own. 
Her  earnestness  disconcerted,  alarmed  him. 
"  Emily  !  "  he  said  in  a  low,  intense  tone,  putting 
his  hand  upon  hers.  "  Tell  me " —  She  had 
turned  her  head  and  they  were  now  looking  each 
into  the  other's  eyes — "  do  you — can't  you — care 
for  me  ?  "  He  wondered  at  the  appeal  in  his  voice, 
at  the  anxiety  with  which  he  waited  for  her  answer. 
"  I  cannot  live  without  you,  Emily." 

"  But  if  I  were  tied  to  you,"  she  said,  "  if  I  felt 
compelled,  if  I  felt  that  you  were  being  compelled, 


ii6     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

to  keep  on  with  me — well,  I'm  not  sure  that 
I  could  continue  to  care  or  to  believe  that  you 
cared." 

"  Then  " — he  interrupted. 

"  But,"  she  went  on,  "  I'm  not  great  enough  or 
•wise  enough,  or  perhaps  I  was  too  long  trained  to 
conventionality,  or  am  too  recently  and  incom 
pletely  freed, — to " 

"  It  isn't  necessary,"  he  began,  as  she  hesitated 
and  cast  about  for  a  phrase.  "  Perhaps — in  some 
circumstances — I'd  have  hoped  that  it  would  be 
so.  But  with  you — it's  different.  I  can't  explain 
myself  even  to  myself.  All  I  know  is  that  my 
theories  have  gone  down  the  wind  and  that — I 
want  you.  I  want  you  on  the  world's  terms — for 
better  or  for  worse,  for  ever  and  a  day.  Dear,  can't 
you  care  enough  for  me  to  take  the  risk  ?  " 

He  put  his  arm  round  her  and  kissed  her.  She 
said  in  a  faint  voice,  hardly  more  than  a  murmur, 
"  I  think  so — yes." 

"  Will  you  marry  me,  Emily  ?  "  he  asked  eagerly, 
and  then  he  smiled  with  a  little  self-mockery.  "  I've 
always  loathed  that  word  *  marry  ' — and  all  other 
words  that  mean  finality.  I've  always  wished  to  be 
free  to  change  my  mind  and  my  course  at  any  mo 
ment.  And  now " 

She  pushed  him  from  her,  but  left  her  hand  on 
his  shoulder.  "  Yes,  dear,  but  it  isn't  a  finality 
with  us.  We  go  through  a  ceremony  because — 
say,  because  it  is  convenient.  But  if  we — either 
of  us — cease  to  love,  each  must  feel  free  to  go.  If 


A    COMPROMISE.  117 

I  ever  found  out  that  you  had  kissed  me  once, 
merely  because  you  thought  it  was  expected  of  you, 
I'd  despise  myself — and  you.  If  I  promise  to 
marry  you,  dear,  you  must  promise  to  leave  me 
free." 

"  Since  I  could  not  hold  you — the  real  you — an  in 
stant  longer  than  you  wished — I  promise."  He 
caught  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  again  and 
again.  "  But  you'll  never  call  on  me  to  redeem 
my  promise,  will  you,  dear  ?  " 

"That's  why  I  ask  you  to  make  it.  If  we're  both 
free,  we  may  not  ever  care  to  test  it,"  she  answered. 
The  words  came  from  her  mind,  but  with  them  came 
a  tone  and  a  look  from  the  heart  that  were  an  an 
swer  to  his. 

"We — you  talk  the  new  wisdom,"  he  said,  "  but 
— "  and  he  kissed  her  once  more  "  feel  the  old  wis 
dom,  or  folly — which  is  it  ?  No  matter — I  love 
you." 

"  The  road  is  very  bright  here  and  carriages  are 
coming,"  she  answered,  sitting  up  and  releasing 
herself  from  him.  And  then  they  both  laughed  at 
their  sensitiveness  to  conventions. 

Marlowe  was  all  for  flinging  their  theories  over 
board  in  the  mass  and  accepting  the  routine  as  it  is 
marked  out  for  the  married.  But  Emily  refused. 
She  could  not  entertain  the  idea  of  becoming  a  de 
pendent  upon  him,  absorbed  in  his  personality.  "  I 
wish  to  continue  to  love  him,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"And  also  I'd  be  very  foolish  to  bind  him,  though 
he  wishes  to  be  bound.  The  chances  are,  he'd  grow 


ii8     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

weary  long  before  I  did.  A  man's  life  is  fuller  than 
a  woman's,  even  than  a  working  woman's.  And  he 
has  more  temptations  to  wander." 

"  We  will  marry,"  she  said  to  him,  "but  we  will 
not  '  settle  down  '." 

"  I  should  hope  not"  he  answered,  with  energy, 
as  before  his  eyes  rose  a  vision  of  himself  yawning 
in  carpet-slippers  with  a  perambulator  in  the  front 
hall. 

"  We  will  compromise  with  conventionality  ' 
she  went  on.  "  We  will  marry,  but  we  won't  tell 
anybody.  And  I'll  take  an  apartment  with  Joan 
Gresham  and  will  go  on  with  my  work.  And — 
Dearest,  I  don't  wish  to  become  an  old  story  to 
you — at  least  not  so  long  as  we're  young.  I  don't 
want  you  as  my  husband.  I  want  you  to  be  my 
love/r.  And  I  want  to  be  always,  every  time  we 
meet,  new  and  interesting  to  you." 

"  But — why,  I'd  be  little  more  than  a  stranger." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  She  put  her  arms  about 
his  neck  and  looked  him  full  in  the  eyes.  "  You 
know  it  wouldn't  be  so." 

He  thought  a  moment.  "  I  see  what  you  mean,'* 
he  said.  "  I  suppose  it  is  familiarity  that  drives 
love  out  of  marriage.  Whatever  you  wish,  Strange 
Lady — anything,  everything.  We  can  easily  try 
your  plan." 

"And  if  it  fails,  we  can  'settle  down*  just  like 
other  people,  where,  if  we  '  settled  down  '  first  and 
failed  at  that,  we'd  have  nothing  left  to  try." 

"  You  are  so — so  different  from  any  other  woman 


A    COMPROMISE.  119 

that  ever  was,"  he  said.  "  No  wonder  I  love  you  in 
the  way  that  a  man  loves  only  once." 

"  And  I'm  determined  that  you  shall  keep  on 
loving  me." 

"  I  can  see  that  you  are  getting  ready  to  lead  me 
a  wild  life."  There  was  foreboding  as  well  as  jest 
in  his  tone. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"  EVERYTHING  AWAITS   MADAME." 

FRANK  wished  to  see  Theresa   well   pro 
vided  for — he  was  most  amiable  and  gen 
erous  where  serving   a   friend   cost   him 
nothing  and  agreeably  filled  a  few  of  his 
many  vacant  hours.     He   cast    shrewdly 
about  among  the  susceptible  and  eligible  widowers 
and  bachelors  of  his  club  and  fixed    upon   Edgar 
Wayland's   father.     The  old  General  and  "  cotton 
baron  "  was  growing  lonelier  and  lonelier.     He  was 
too   rich  to  afford  the  luxury  of   friendship.     He 
suspected  and  shunned  sycophants.     He  dreaded 
being  married  for  his  money,  yet  longed  for  a  home 
with  some  one  therein  who  would  make  him  com 
fortable,  would    listen    patiently    to    his    reminis 
cences  and  moralisings.     He  had  led  an  anything 
but  exemplary  life,  but  having  reached  the  age  and 
condition   where  his   kinds    of   self-indulgence   are 
either  highly  dangerous  or  impossible,  he  wished  to 
become  a  bulwark  of   the   church   and   the   social 
order. 

"  He  needs  me  even  more  than  I  need  him,"  said 
Theresa,  when  she  disclosed  her  scheme  to  Emily, 
"  and  that's  saying  a  good  deal.  He  thinks  I've 
been  living  in  Blue  Mountain,  thinks  I'm  simple 


"MADAME. "  121 

and  guileless — and  I  am,  in  comparison  with  him. 
I'll  make  a  new  and  better  man  of  him.  If  he  got 
the  sort  of  woman  he  thinks  he  wants,  he'd  be  mis 
erable.  As  it  is,  he'll  be  happy." 

Theresa  offered  to  introduce  the  General  to  Em 
ily,  but  she  refused,  much  to  Theresa's  relief.  "  It's 
just  as  well,"  she  said,  with  the  candour  that  was  the 
chief  charm  of  her  character.  "  You're  entirely  too 
fascinating  with  your  violet  eyes  and  your  wonder 
ful  complexion,  my  dear.  But  after  he's  safe,  you 
must  visit  us." 

When  the  time  came  for  Theresa  to  go  to  Blue 
Mountain  for  her  marriage,  she  begged  Emily  to  go 
with  her.  "  I  didn't  know  how  fond  I  was  of  you," 
she  said,  "  until  now  that  we're  separating.  And 
when  I  look  at  you,  and  forget  for  the  moment  what 
a  sensible,  self-reliant  girl  you  are,  it  seems  to  me 
that  you  can't  possibly  get  along  without  me  to 
protect  you." 

But  Emily  could  not  go  to  the  wedding.  She 
was  moving  into  an  apartment  in  Irving  Place  which 
she  and  Joan  had  taken.  Also  she  was  marrying. 

The  wedding  was  set  for  a  Thursday,  but  Mar 
lowe  found  that  he  must  leave  town  on  Wednesday 
night  to  go  with  the  President  on  a  short  "  swing 
round  the  circle."  So  on  Wednesday  afternoon  he 
and  Emily  went  to  a  notary  in  One  Hundred  and 
Twenty-fifth  street  and  were  married  by  certificate. 

"  Certainly  the  modern  improvements  do  go  far 
toward  making  marriage  painless,"  said  Marlowe  as 
they  left  with  the  certificates.  "  I  haven't  felt  it  at 


122     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

all.  Have  you  ?  "  And  he  stopped  at  a  letter  box 
to  mail  the  duplicate  for  the  Board  of  Health.  As 
he  balanced  it  on  the  movable  shelf,  he  looked  at 
her  with  a  queer  expression  in  his  eyes.  "  You  can 
still  draw  back,"  he  said.  "  If  we  tear  up  the  papers, 
we're  not  married.  If  I  mail  this  one  we  are." 

She  made  a  movement  toward  the  balancing  let 
ter  and  he  hastily  let  it  drop  into  the  box.  "  Too 
late,"  he  said,  in  a  mock  tragic  tone.  "  We  are  mar 
ried — tied — bound  !  " 

"  And  now  let  us  forget  it,"  was  Emily's  reply. 
"  No  one  knows  it  except  us ;  and  we  need  never 
think  of  it." 

They  were  silent  on  the  journey  down  town,  and 
her  slight  depression  seemed  to  infect  him  deeply. 
Two  hours  after  the  ceremony  he  was  dining  alone 
in  the  Washington  express,  and  she  and  Joan  were 
having  their  first  dinner  in  their  first  "  home." 

Two  weeks  later — in  the  last  week  of  September — 
she  took  the  four  o'clock  boat  for  Atlantic  High 
lands  and  the  train  there  for  Seabright.  At  the 
edge  of  the  platform  of  the  deserted  station  she 
found  the  yellow  trap  with  stripes  of  red  on  the 
body  and  shafts — the  trap  he  had  described  in  his 
letter. 

"  For  Germain's?"  she  asked  the  driver,  after  she 
had  looked  round  carefully,  as  if  she  were  not  going 
to  meet  her  husband. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  he  answered.  "  They're  expecting 
you." 

Her  trunk  and  bag  were  put  on  the  seat  with  the 


"MADAME."  123 

driver  and  they  were  soon  in  the  Rumson  road,  gor 
geous  with  autumn  finery.  There  were  the  odours 
of  the  sea  and  the  woods,  and  the  air  was  tranquil 
yet  exhilarating.  The  trim  waggon,  the  brilliant 
trees  arching  overhead,  the  attractive  houses  and 
lawns  on  either  side — it  seemed  to  her  that  she  was 
in  a  dream.  They  turned  down  a  lane  to  the  right. 
It  led  through  a  thick  grove  of  maples,  its  foliage 
a  tremulous  curtain  of  scarlet  and  brown  lit  by  the 
declining  sun.  Another  turn  and  they  were  at  the 
side  entrance  to  an  old-fashioned  brick  house  with 
creepers  screening  verandas  and  balconies.  There 
were  tables  on  the  verandas,  and  tables  out  in  the 
garden  under  the  trees.  She  could  hear  only  the 
birds  and  the  faint  sigh  of  the  distant  surf. 

Rapid  footsteps,  and  a  small,  fat,  smooth  man 
appeared  and  bowed  profoundly.  "  Monsieur  has 
not  arrived  yet,"  he  said.  "  Madame  Marlowe,  is 
it  not?" 

She  blushed  and  answered  nervously,  "  Yes — 
that  is — yes."  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  heard 
her  legal  name,  or  even  had  definitely  recognised 
its  existence. 

"  Monsieur  telegraphed  for  madame  " — He  had  a 
way  of  saying  madame  which  suggested  that  it  was 
a  politeness  rather  than  an  actuality — "  to  order 
dinner,  and  that  he  will  presently  come  to  arrive  by 
the  Little  Silver  station  from  which  he  will  drive. 
He  missed  his  train  unhappily.  But  madame  need 
not  derange  herself.  Monsieur  comes  to  arrive 
now." 


124     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

Emily  seated  herself  on  the  veranda  at  its  farthest 
table  from  the  entrance.  "  How  guilty  and  queer 
and — happy  I  feel,"  she  thought. 

Monsieur  Germain  brought  the  dinner  card. 
"  I'm  sure  we  can  trust  to  you  for  the  dinner,"  she 
said. 

"  Bien,  madame.  It  will  be  a  pleasure.  And 
will  madame  have  a  refreshing  drink  while  she 
passes  the  time  ?  " 

"  Yes — a  little — perhaps — a  little  brandy  ?  "  she 
said  tentatively. 

"  Excellent."  And  Germain  himself  brought  a 
"  pony  "  of  brandy,  a  tall  empty  glass  and  a  bottle 
of  soda.  He  opened  the  soda  and  went  away.  She 
drank  the  brandy  from  the  little  glass,  and  then 
some  of  the  soda.  Almost  instantly  she  felt  her 
timidity  flying  before  a  warm  courage  that  spread 
through  her  veins  and  sparkled  in  her  eyes.  "  It  is 
even  more  beautiful  here  than  I  imagined  it  would 
be,"  she  thought,  as  she  looked  round.  "  And  I'm 
glad  I  got  here  first  and  had  a  chance  to  get — the 
brandy." 

When  her  husband  came  he  found  her  leaning 
against  a  pillar  of  the  veranda  looking  out  into 
space,  an  attitude  that  was  characteristic  of  her. 
She  greeted  him  with  a  blush,  with  downcast  eyes, 
with  mischievous  radiance. 

"  I  just  saw  my  first  star,"  she  said,  "  and  I  made 
a  wish." 

He  put  his  arm  round  her  and  his  head  against 
hers.  "  Don't  tell  me  what  you  wished,"  he  said, 


"MADAME."  125- 

"  for — I — we — want  it  to  come  true.  It  must  come 
true.  And  it  will,  won't  it  ?  " 

"  I'm  very,  very  happy — thus  far,"  she  answered. 

They  stood  in  silence,  watching  Germain  and  the 
waiter  set  a  table  under  the  trees — the  linen,  the 
silver  and  glass  and  china,  the  candlesticks.  And 
then  Germain  came  to  the  walk  below  them  and 
beamed  up  at  them. 

"  Everything  awaits  madame,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A  FLICKERING    FIRE. 


1 


made  several  journeys  to  Monsieur 
Germain  that  fall,  as  he  did  not  close  his 
inn  and  return  to  Philadelphia  until  the 
second  week  in  December.  He  had  the 
instinctive  French  passion  for  the  roman 
tically  unconventional ;  and,  while  he  was  a  severely 
proper  person  in  his  own  domestic  relations,  the 
mystery  of  the  quiet  visits  of  this  handsome  young 
couple  delighted  him.  He  made  them  very  com 
fortable  indeed,  and  his  big  smooth  face  shone  like 
a  sun  upon  their  happiness. 

As  Marlowe  had  always  been  most  irregular  in  his 
appearances  at  the  office,  Emily's  absences  did  not 
connect  her  with  him  in  the  minds  of  their  acquain 
tances.  Even  Joan  suspected  nothing.  She  saw 
that  Marlowe  was  devoted  to  her  beautiful  friend 
and  she  believed  that  Emily  loved  him,  but  she  had 
seen  love  go  too  often  to  be  much  affected  by  its 
coming. 

After  three  months  of  this  prolonged  and  pecu 
liar  honeymoon,  Marlowe  showed  the  first  faint 
signs  of  impatience.  It  was  a  new  part  to  him,  this 
of  being  the  eluded  instead  of  the  eluder,  the  un- 


A    FLICKERING    FIRE.       127 

certain,  not  the  creator  of  uncertainty.  And  it  was 
a  part  that  baffled  his  love  and  irritated  his  vanity. 
He  thought  much  upon  ways  and  means  of  convert 
ing  his  Spartan  marriage  into  one  in  which  his 
authority,  his  headship  would  be  recognized,  and  at 
last  hit  upon  a  plan  of  action  which  he  ventured  to 
hope  might  bring  her  to  terms.  He  stayed  away 
from  her  for  two  weeks,  then  went  to  Chicago  for  a 
month,  writing  her  only  an  occasional  brief  note. 

Before  he  left  for  Chicago,  Emily  was  exceeding 
sick  at  heart.  She  kept  up  appearances  at  the 
office,  but  at  home  went  about  with  a  long  and  sad 
face.  "They've  quarrelled,"  thought  Joan,  "and 
she's  taking  it  hard."  Emily  was  tempted  to  do 
many  foolish  things — for  example,  she  wrote  a 
dozen  notes  at  least,  each  more  or  less  ingeniously 
disguising  its  real  purpose.  But  she  sent  none  of 
them.  "If  he  doesn't  care,"  she  reflected,  "it 
would  be  humiliating  myself  to  no  purpose.  And 
if  he  does  care,  he  has  a  good  reason  which  he'll 
tell  when  he  can." 

Then  came  his  almost  curt  note  announcing  his 
departure  for  Chicago.  She  was  angry — "he's 
treating  his  wife  as  he  wouldn't  treat  a  girl  he'd 
been  merely  attentive  to."  But,  worse  than  angry, 
she  was  wounded,  in  the  mortal  spot  in  her  love 
for  him — her  unquestioning  confidence  in  him. 

This  might  be  called  her  introduction  to  the  real 
Marlowe,  the  beginning  of  her  acquaintance  with 
the  man  she  had  married  after  a  look  at  the  outside 
of  him  and  a  distorted  glimpse  of  such  parts  of 


128    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

the  inside  man  as  are  shown  by  one  bent  upon 
making  the  most  favourable  impression. 

When  he  had  been  in  Chicago  three  weeks,  came 
a  long  letter  from  him — "  Forgive  me.  I  was  not 
content  as  we  were  living.  I  want  you — all  of  you, 
all  of  the  time.  I  want  you  as  my  very  own.  And 
I  thought  to  win  you  to  my  way  of  thinking.  But 
you  seem  to  be  stronger  than  I."  And  so  on 
through  many  pages,  filled  with  passionate  out 
pourings — extravagant  compliments,  alternations  of 
pride  and  humility,  all  the  eloquence  of  a  lover 
with  an  emotional  nature  and  a  gift  for  writing.  It 
was  to  her  an  irresistible  appeal,  so  intensely  did 
she  long  for  him.  But  there  drifted  through  her 
mind,  to  find  lodgment  in  an  obscure  corner,  the 
thought :  "  Why  is  he  dissatisfied  with  a  happiness 
that  satisfies  me  ?  Why  do  I  feel  none  of  this  de 
sire  to  abandon  my  independence  and  submerge 
myself?"  At  the  moment  her  answer  was,  that  if 
she  were  to  do  as  he  wished  he  would  remain  free, 
while  she  would  become  his  dependent.  After 
ward  that  answer  did  not  satisfy  her. 

He  came  back,  and  their  life  went  on  as  before 
until 

She  overheard  two  men  at  the  office  talking  of 
an  adventure  he  had  had  while  he  was  in  Chicago. 
She  did  not  hear  all,  and  she  got  no  details,  but 
there  was  enough  to  let  her  see  that  he  had  not 
lived  up  to  their  compact.  "  Now  I  understand 
his  letter,"  she  said.  "It  was  the  result  of  re 
morse."  And  with  a  confused  mingling  of  jeal- 


A    FLICKERING    FIRE.       129 

ousy  and  indignation,  she  reviewed  his  actions 
toward  her  immediately  after  his  return.  She  now 
saw  that  they  were  planned  deliberately  to  make  it 
impossible  for  her  to  think  him  capable  of  such  a 
lapse.  She  could  follow  the  processes  of  his  mind 
as  it  worked  out  the  scheme,  gauging  her  credulity 
and  his  own  adroitness.  When  she  had  done,  she 
had  found  him  guilty  of  actions  that  concerned  their 
most  sacred  relations,  and  that  were  tainted  with 
the  basest  essence  of  hypocrisy. 

"  I  shouldn't  care  what  he  had  done,"  she  said 
to  herself  bitterly,  "  if  he  had  been  honest  with  me 
- — honestly  silent  or  honestly  outspoken.  I  cannot, 
shall  not,  ever  trust  him  again.  And  such  needless 
deception !  He  acted  as  if  I  were  the  ordinary 
silly  woman  who  won't  make  allowances  and  can't 
generously  forgive.  I  love  him,  but " 

"  I  love  him,  but — "  that  is  always  the  beginning 
of  a  change  which  at  least  points  in  the  direction  of 
the  end.  At  first  she  was  for  having  it  out  with 
him.  But  she  decided  that  he  would  only  think  her 
vulgarly  jealous ;  and  so,  with  unconscious  incon 
sistency,  she  resolved  to  violate  her  own  fundamental 
principle  of  absolute  frankness. 

A  few  weeks  and  these  wounds  to  her  love,  in-j 
flicted  by  him  and  aggravated  by  herself,  seemed  to 
have  healed.  They  were  again  together  almost 
every  day  and  were  apparently  like  lovers  in  the 
first  ecstasy  of  engagement.  But  while  he  was 
completely  under  her  spell,  her  attitude  toward 
him  was  slightly  critical.  She  admired  his  looks, 


130    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

his  physical  strength,  his  brilliant  quickness  of  mind, 
as  much  as  ever.  At  the  same  time  she  began  to 
see  and  to  measure  his  weaknesses. 

She  was  often,  in  the  very  course  of  laughter  or 
admiration  at  his  cleverness,  brought  to  a  sudden 
halt  by  the  discovery  that  he  was  not  telling  the 
truth.  Like  many  men  of  rapid  and  epigrammatic 
speech,  he  would  sacrifice  anything,  from  a  fact  of 
history  to  the  reputation  of  a  friend,  for  the  sake 
of  scoring  a  momentary  triumph.  And  whenever 
she  caught  him  in  one  of  these  carelessly  uttered 
falsehoods  she  was  reminded  of  his  falsehood  to 
her — that  rankling,  cankerous  double  falsehood  of 
unfaithfulness  and  deceit. 

Another  hastener  of  the  mortal  process  of  de-ideal 
isation   was   the    discovery    that   his    sparkle    was 
hiding  a  shallowness  which  was  so  lacking  in  depth 
that  it  offended  even  her,  a  woman — and  women 
are  not  easily  offended  by  pretence  in  men.     His 
mind  was  indeed  quick,  but  quick  only  to  see  and 
»  seize    upon   that  which  had    been   discovered  and 
'  shown   to   him   by   some   one  else.      And  so    for 
getful  or  so  used  to  borrowing  without  any  sort  of 
credit  was  he,  that  he  would  even  exhibit  to  Emily 
as  original  with  himself  the  ideas  which  she  had  ex 
pressed  to  him  only  a  few  days  before.     He  had  a 
genius  for  putting  everything  in  the  show-window  ; 
but  he  could  not  conceal  from  her  penetrating,  and 
'now  critical  and  suspicious  eyes,  the  empty-shelved 
I  shop  behind,  with  him,  full  of  vanity  and  eagerness 
to  attract  any  wayfarer,  and  peering  out  to  note  what 


A    FLICKERING    FIRE.       131 

effect  he  was  producing.  She  discovered  that  one 
of  the  main  sources  of  his  education  was  Stilson — 
that  it  was  to  an  amazing,  a  ridiculous,  a  pitiful  ex 
tent  Stilson's  views  and  ideas  and  knowledge  and 
sardonic  wit  which  he  bore  away  and  diluted  and 
served  up  as  his  own.  Comparison  is  the  life  and 
also  the  death  of  love.  As  soon  as  she  began  to 
compare  him  with  Stilson  and  to  admit  that  he  was 
the  lesser,  she  began  to  neglect  love,  to  leave  it  to 
the  alternating  excessive  heat  and  cold  of  passion. 

But  all  these  causes  of  a  curious  decline  were 
subordinate  to  one  great  cause — she  discovered  that 
he  was  a  coward,  that  he  was  afraid  of  her.  The 
quality  which  she  admired  in  a  man  above  every 
other  was  courage.  She  had  thought  Marlowe  had 
it.  And  he  was  physically  brave ;  but,  when  she 
knew  him  well  and  had  got  used  to  that  cheapest 
form  of  courage  which  dazzles  the  mob  and  de 
ceives  the  unthinking,  she  saw  a  coward  lurking 
beneath.  He  wrote  things  he  did  not  believe ; 
he  shirked  issues  both  in  his  profession  and  in  his 
private  life ;  he  lied  habitually,  not  because  people 
intruded  upon  his  affairs  and  so  compelled  and  ex 
cused  misrepresentation,  but  because  he  was  afraid 
to  face  the  consequences  of  truth. 

In  February  she  was  saying  sadly  to  herself : 
"  If  he'd  been  brave,  he  would  have  made  me  come 
to  him,  could  have  made  me  do  as  he  wished. 

Instead "  She  was  not  proud,  yet  neither  was 

she  ashamed,  of  the  conspicuous  tyranny  she  had 
established  over  him. 


132     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  she  said  to  Joan  at  breakfast 
one  morning,  to  draw  her  out,  "  that  the  only  way 
to  be  married,  is  for  each  to  live  his  own  life.  Then 
at  least  there  can  be  none  of  that  degrading  famil 
iarity  and  monotony." 

Joan  shook  her  head  in  vigorous  dissent. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  asked  Emily. 

"  Because  it  is  certain  to  end  in  failure — abso 
lutely  certain." 

Emily  looked  uncomfortable.  "  I  don't  see  why," 
she  said,  somewhat  irritably.  "  Don't  you  think 
people  can  get  too  much  of  each  other  ?  " 

"  Certainly — and  in  marriage  they  always  do ; 
but  if  it's  to  be  a  marriage,  if  there's  to  be  any 
thing  permanent  about  it,  they  must  live  together, 
see  each  other  constantly,  become  completely 
united  in  the  same  current  of  life  ;  all  their  inter 
ests  [must  be  in  common,  and  they  must  have  a 
common  destiny  and  must  never  forget  it." 

"  But  that  isn't  love,"  objected  Emily. 

"  No,  it  isn't  love — love  of  the  kind  we're  all 
crazy  about  nowadays.  But  it  is  married  love — and 
that's  the  kind  we're  talking  about.  If  I  were  mar. 
ried  I  shouldn't  let  my  husband  out  of  my  sight  for 
a  minute,  except  when  it  was  necessary.  I'd  see  to 
it  that  we  became  one.  If  he  were  the  stronger, 
he'd  be  the  one.  If  I  were  the  stronger,  I'd  be  the 
one — but  I'd  try  to  be  generous." 

Emily  laughed  at  this  picture  of  tyranny,  sc* 
directly  opposed  to  her  own  ideas  and  to  her  own 
.tyranny  over  her  husband.  She  mocked  Joan  for 


A    FLICKERING    FIRE.       133 

entertaining  such  "  barbaric  notions."  But  later  in 
the  day,  she  caught  herself  saying,  with  a  sigh  she'd 
have  liked  to  believe  was  not  regret,  "  It's  too  late 
now." 

There  were  days  when  she  liked  him,  hours  when 
she  wrought  herself  into  an  exaltation  which  was  a 
feeble  but  deceptive  imitation  of  his  adoration  of 
her — and  how  he  did  adore  her  then,  how  he  did 
strain  to  clasp  her  more  tightly,  believing  her  still 
his,  and  not  heeding  instinctive,  subtle  warnings 
that  she  was  slipping  from  him.  But  in  contrast  to 
these  days  of  liking  and  hours  of  loving  were  her 
longer  periods  of  indifference  and,  occasionally,  of 
weariness. 

Early  in  the  summer,  there  was  a  revival  of  her 
interest — a  six  weeks'  separation  from  him  ;  an  at 
tack  of  the  "  blues,"  of  loneliness  ;  a  sudden  appre 
ciation  of  the  strength  and  comfort  of  the  habit 
which  a  husband  had  become  with  her. 

On  a  Friday  evening  in  June  he  was  coming  to 
dine,  and  Miss  Gresham  was  dining  out.  He  arrived 
twenty  minutes  late.  "  I've  been  making  my  ar 
rangements  to  sail  to-morrow,"  he  explained. 
"  You  can  come  on  the  Wednesday  or  Saturday 
steamer — if  you  can  arrange  to  leave  on  such  short 
notice." 

She  looked  surprised — she  was  no  longer  as 
tonished  at  the  newspaper  world's  rapid  shifts. 

"  They're  sending  me  to  reorganise  the  foreign 
service.  They  also  wish  to  send  a  woman  to  Paris, 
and  didn't  know  whom  to  ask.  I  suggested  you, 


134    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

and  reminded  them  that  you  speak  French.  They 
soon  consented.  My  headquarters  will  be  London, 
but  I'll  be  free  to  go  where  I  wish.  Will  you  come  ? 
Won't  you  come  ?  " 

Evidently  he  was  assuming  that  she  would  ;  but 
she  said,  "  I'll  have  to  think  it  over." 

He  looked  at  her  nervously.  "  Why,  I  may 
be  away  several  years,"  he  said.  "And  over 
there— 

"You  forget — I'm  tied  up  with  Joan.  We  have 
a  lease.  But  that  might  be  arranged.  Do  you 
know  what  salary  they'll  give  me  ?  " 

"  Sixty  a  week — and  your  travelling  expenses." 

"Yes,"  said  Emily,  after  a  moment's  silent  cast 
ing  up  of  figures.  "  Yes — the  lease  can  be  taken 
care  of.  Then,  there  is  my  work — what  are  the  ad 
vantages  ?  " 

"  Experience — a  change  of  scene — a  chance  to  do 
more  individual  work — and  last,  and,  of  course, 
least  in  your  eyes,  lady-with-a-career-to-make,  the 
inestimable  advantages  of " 

The  servant  was  out  of  the  room.  He  went  be 
hind  her  chair,  and  bent  over  and  kissed  her.  "  We 
shall  be  happy  as  never  before,  dear — happy  though 
we  have  been,  haven't  we  ?  Think  what  we  can  do 
together — how  free  we  shall  be,  how  many  beauti 
ful  places  we  can  visit." 

She  was  looking  at  him  tenderly  and  dreamily 
when  he  was  sitting  opposite  her  again.  "  Yes,  we 
shall  be  happy,"  she  said,  and  to  herself  she  added, 
"  again." 


A    FLICKERING    FIRE.       135 

The  next  morning,  at  about  the  hour  when  Mar 
lowe's  boat  was  dropping  down  the  bay,  Joan  went 
into  Emily's  room  and  awakened  her.  "  I  can't 
wait  any  longer,"  she  said.  "  Did  you  know  you 
were  going  abroad  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Emily,  sleepily  rubbing  her  eyes, 
"  Marlowe  was  dining  here  last  night,  and  he  told 
me." 

"  It's  very  evident  that  Stilson  likes  and  ap 
preciates  you,"  continued  Joan.  "  He  selected 
you." 

Emily  smiled  faintly — she  was  remembering  what 
Marlowe  had  said. 

"1  happened  to  be  in  Stilson's  office,"  continued 
Joan,  "  when  he  was  deciding.  It  seems  the  Lon 
don  man  suddenly  resigned  and  something  had  to 
be  done  at  once.  You  know  Stilson  is  acting  Man 
aging  Editor.  He  asked  me  if  you  spoke  French. 
He  said  :  'I'm  just  sending  for  Marlowe  to  come 
down,  as  I  wish  him  to  go  to  London  for  us ;  and 
if  Miss  Bromfield  can  speak  French,  I'll  send  her  to 
Paris.'  I  told  him  that  you  spoke  it  almost  like  a 
native.  '  That  settles  it,'  he  said,  *  I'll  tell  her  to- 
morrow — but  I  don't  mind  if  you  tell  her  first. 
You  live  together,  don't  you  ? '  And  you  were 
asleep  when  I  came  last  night,  and  I'm  so  disap 
pointed  that  I'm  not  the  first  to  tell  you." 

Emily  had  sunk  back  into  her  pillow  and  was 
concealing  her  face  from  Joan.  "  I  wish  they'd 
sent  you,"  she  said  presently,  in  a  strained  voice. 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  have  gone.     The   fact  is   I've 


136    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

written  a  play  and  had  it  accepted.  It's,  to  be  pro- 
duced  at  the  Lyceum  in  six  weeks." 

"But  why  didn't  you  tell  me?"  Emily  could 
not  uncover  her  face,  could  not  put  interest  in  her 
tone — she  could  think  only  of  Marlowe,  of  his 
petty,  futile,  vainglorious  lie  to  her.  A  few  hours 
before — it  seemed  but  a  few  minutes — they  had 
been  so  happy  together.  She  had  fancied  that  the 
best  was  come  again.  Her  nerves  were  still  vibrat 
ing  to  his  caresses.  And  now — this  adder-like  re 
minder  of  all  his  lies,  deceptions,  hypocrisies. 

"  I  thought  I'd  surprise  you,"  replied  Joan. 
"  Besides,  it's  not  a  very  good  play.  And  when 
you're  in  Paris,  you  might  watch  the  papers  for  the 
notices  of  the  first  night  of  '  Love  the  Liar,  by 
Harriette  Stone  ' — that  will  be  my  play  and  I." 

"  Love  the  Liar,"  Emily  repeated,  and  then  Joan 
saw  her  shoulders  shaking. 

"  Laughing  at  me  ?  I  don't  wonder  ;  it's  very 
sentimental — but  then,  you  know,  I  have  a  streak  of 
sentiment  in  me." 

When  Joan  left  her,  Emily  brushed  the  tears  from 
her  eyes  and  slowly  rose.  "  I  ought  to  be  used  to 
him  by  this  time,"  she  said.  "  But — oh,  why  did 
he  spoil  it !  Why  does  he  always  spoil  it !  " 

At  the  office,  she  was  apparently  bright  again, 
certainly  was  looking  very  lovely  and  a  little  mis 
chievous  as  she  went  in  to  see  Stilson.  "  I'd  thank 
you,  if  I  dared,"  she  said,  "  but  I  know  that  you'd 
cut  me  short  with  some  remark  about  my  thanks 
being  an  insinuation  that  you  were  cheating  the  pro- 


A    FLICKERING    FIRE.       137 

prietors  of  the  Democrat  by  showing  favouritism." 
She  was  no  longer  in  the  least  afraid  of  him.  "  Per 
haps  you'd  like  it  better  if  I  told  you  I  was  angry 
about  it." 

"  And  why  angry,  pray  ?  "  There  was  a  twinkle 
deep  down  in  his  sombre  sardonic  eyes. 

"  Because  you're  sending  me  away  to  get  rid  of 
me." 

He  winced  and  flushed  a  deep  red.  He  rose 
abruptly  and  bowed.  "  No  thanks  are  necessary," 
he  said,  and  he  was  standing  at  the  window  with  his 
back  to  her. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said  to  his  strong,  un 
compromising  shoulders.  "  I  did  not  mean  to  of 
fend  you — you  must  know  that." 

"  Offend  me?"  He  turned  his  face  toward  her 
but  did  not  let  her  see  his  eyes.  He  put  out  his 
hand  and  just  touched  hers  before  drawing  it  away. 
"  My  manner  is  unfortunate.  But — that  is  not  im 
portant.  Success  to  you,  if  I  don't  see  you  before 
you  sail." 

As  she  left  his  office  she  could  see  his  face,  his 
eyes,  in  profile.  His  expression  was  more  than  sad 
— it  was  devoid  of  hope. 

''Where  have  I  seen  an  expression  like  that  be 
fore  ?  "  she  wondered.  But  she  could  not  then  re 
member. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

EMBERS. 

ON  the  way  across  the  Atlantic  her  pain 
ful  thoughts  faded;  and,  after  the  mid- 
ocean     period    when     the    worlds    on 
either   side    of    those    infinite    waters 
dwindle  into  unreality,  she  found  her 
imagination  looking  forward  to  her  new  world  as 
a   place  where   there   would  be  a  new  beginning 
in  her  work  and  in  her  love.     At  Cherbourg  Mar 
lowe  came  out  on  the  lighter.     "  How  handsome  he 
is,"  she  was  saying  to  herself,  as  she  leaned  against 
the  rail,  watching  his  eyes  search  for  her.     "And 
how  well  he  wears  his   clothes.     His   head  is  set 
upon  his  shoulders  just  right — what  a  strong,  grace 
ful  figure  he  has."     And  she  again  felt  something 
resembling  her  initial  interest  and  pride  in  him,  her 
mind  once  more,  as  at  first,  interpreting  his  charac 
ter  through  his  appearance,  instead  of  reading  into 
his  appearance  the  man  as  she  knew  him. 

When  their  eyes  met  she  welcomed  and  returned 
the  thought  he  sent  her  in  his  look. 

They  were  soon  together,  bubbling  over  with  the 
joy  of  living  like  two  children  let  out  into  the  sun 
shine  to  play  after  a  long  imprisonment  with  les 
sons.  They  had  a  compartment  to  themselves  down 


EMBERS.  139 

to  Paris  and  sat  very  near  each  to  the  other,  with 
I  illustrated  papers  as  the  excuse  for  prolonging  the 
enormous  pleasure  of  the  physical  sensation  of 
nearness.  They  repeated  again  and  again  the  I 
commonplaces  which  all  human  beings  use  as 
public  coaches  to  carry  their  inarticulate  selves  a 
visiting  each  other. 

She  went  to  sleep  for  a  few  minutes,  leaning 
against  him  ;  and  a  breeze  teased  his  nerves  into  an 
ecstasy  of  happiness  with  a  stray  of  her  fine 
red-brown  hair.  "  I've  never  been  so  happy,"  she 
thought  as  she  awakened,  "  I  could  never  be 
happier."  She  did  not  move  until  it  became  im 
possible  for  her  to  refrain  from  some  outward  ex 
pression  of  her  emotions.  Then  she  only  looked 
up  at  him.  And  his  answer  showed  that  his  mood 
was  hers.  As  they  sank  back  in  the  little  victoria 
outside  the  station,  she  gave  a  long  look  round  the 
busy,  fascinating  scene  —  strange,  infectious  of 
gaiety  and  good-humour.  "  Paris  !  "  she  said,  with 
a  sigh  of  content  in  her  dream  realised. 

"  Paris — and  Emily,"  he  replied. 

They  went  to  a  small  hotel  in  the  Avenue  Mon 
taigne — "  Modern  enough,"  he  said,  "  but  very 
French  and  not  yet  discovered  by  foreigners."  At 
sunset  they  drove  to  d'Armenonville  to  dine  under 
the  trees  and  to  watch  the  most  interesting  groups 
in  the  world — those  groups  of  the  civilised  through 
and  through,  in  dress,  in  manners,  in  thought. 
After  two  days  he  was  called  back  to  London. 
When  he  returned  at  the  end  of  two  weeks  she  had 


140    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

transformed  herself.  A  new  gown,  a  new  hat,  a 
new  way  of  wearing  her  hair,  an  adaptation  of  her 
graces  of  form  and  manner  to  the  fashion  of  the 
moment,  and  she  seemed  a  Parisienne. 

"You  have  had  your  eyes  open,"  he  said,  as  he 
noted  one  detail  after  another,  finally  reaching  the 
face  which  bloomed  so  delicately  beneath  the 
sweeping  brim  of  her  hat.  "And  what  a  gorgeous 
hat !  And  put  on  at  the  miraculous  angle — how 
few  women  know  how  to  put  on  a  hat."  Of  his 
many  tricks  in  the  art  at  which  he  excelled — the 
art  of  superficially  pleasing  women — none  was  more 
effective  than  his  intelligent  appreciation  of  their 
dress. 

They  staid  at  her  pretty  little  apartment  in  a 
maison  meublee  in  the  Rue  des  Capucines  ;  in  a 
few  days  they  went  down  into  Switzerland,  and 
then,  after  a  short  pause  at  Paris,  to  Trouville.  In 
all  they  were  together  about  a  month,  he  neglecting 
his  work  in  spite  of  her  remonstrances  and  her  ex 
ample.  For  she  did  her  work  conscientiously — and 
she  had  never  written  so  well.  He  tried  to  stay  on 
with  her  at  Paris,  but  she  insisted  on  his  going. 

"  I  believe  you  wish  to  be  rid  of  me,"  he  said, 
irritation  close  beneath  the  surface  of  his  jesting 
manner. 

"  This  morning's  is  the  third  complaining  cable 
you've  had  from  the  office,"  she  answered. 

He  looked  at  her,  suspecting  an  evasion,  but  he 
went  back  to  London.  The  unpleasant  truth  was 
that  he  had  worn  out  his  welcome.  She  had  never 


EMBERS.  141 

before  been  with  him  continuously  for  so  much  as  a 
week.  Now,  in  the  crowded  and  consecutive 
impressions  of  these  thirty  uninterrupted  days,  all 
the  qualities  which  repelled  her  stood  out,  stripped 
of  the  shimmer  and  glamour  of  novelty.  And  as 
she  was  having  more  and  more  difficulty  in  deceiv 
ing  herself  and  in  spreading  out  the  decreasing  area 
of  her  liking  for  him  over  the  increasing  gap  where 
her  love  for  him  had  been,  he,  in  the  ironical  per 
versity  of  the  law  of  contraries,  became  more  and 
more  demonstrative  and  even  importunate.  Many 
times  in  her  effort  to  escape  him  and  the  now  ever- 
impending  danger  of  open  rupture,  she  was  driven  to 
devices  which  ought  not  to  have  deceived  him,  per 
haps  did  not  really  deceive  him. 

When  he  was  gone  she  sat  herself  down  to  a 
"  good  cry  " — an  expression  of  overwrought  nerves 
rather  than  of  grief. 

But  after  a  few  weeks  she  began  to  be  lonely. 
The  men  she  met  were  of  two  kinds — those  she  did 
not  like,  all  of  whom  were  willing  to  be  friends  with 
her  on  her  terms ;  those  she  did  like  more  or  less, 
none  of  whom  was  willing  to  be  with  her  on  any 
but  his  own  terms.  And  so  she  found  herself  often 
spending  the  most  attractive  part  of  the  day — the 
evening — dismally  shut  up  at  home,  alone  or  with 
some  not  very  interesting  girl.  She  had  never  been 
so  free,  yet  never  had  she  felt  so  bound.  With  joy 
all  about  her,  with  joy  beckoning  her  from  the 
crowded,  fascinating  boulevards,  she  was  a  prisoner. 
She  needed  Marlowe,  and  she  sent  for  him. 


142     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

She  was  puzzled  by  the  change  in  him.  She  had 
only  too  good  reason  to  know  that  he  loved  her  as 
insistently  as  ever,  but  there  was  a  strain  in  his 
manner  and  speech,  as  if  he  were  concealing  some 
thing  from  her.  She  caught  him  looking  at  her  in 
a  peculiar  way — as  if  he  were  angry  or  resentful  or 
possibly  were  suspecting  her  changed  and  changing 
feelings  toward  him.  And  he  had  never  been  less 
interesting — she  had  never  before  heard  him  talk 
stupidities  and  lifeless  commonplaces  or  break  long 
silences  with  obvious  attempts  to  rouse  himself  to 
•4l  make  conversation." 

She  was  not  sorry  when  he  went — he  stayed  four 
days  longer  than  he  had  intended  ;  but  she  was  also 
glad  to  get  a  message  from  him  ten  days  later, 
announcing  a  week-end  visit.  The  telegram  reached 
her  at  dejeuner  and  afterward,  in  a  better  mood, 
she  drove  to  the  Continental  Hotel,  where  she 
sometimes  heard  news  worth  sending.  She  sat  at  a 
long  window  in  the  empty  drawing-rooms  and 
watched  a  light  and  lazy  snow  drift  down. 

As  it  slowly  chilled  her  to  a  sense  of  loneliness,  of 
disappointment  in  the  past,of  dread  of  the  future, she 
became  conscious  that  a  man  was  pointedly  studying 
her.  She  looked  at  him  with  the  calm,  close,  yet 
repelling,  stare  which  experience  gives  a  woman  as 
a  secure  outlook  upon  the  world  of  strange  men. 
This  strange  man  was  not  ungracefully  sprawled  in 
a  deep  chair,  his  top  hat  in  a  lap  made  by  the  loose 
crossing  of  his  extremely  long  and  extremely  strong 
legs.  His  feet  and  hands  were  proportionate  to 


EMBERS.  143 

his  magnitude.  His  hands  were  white-and  the  fin- 
gers  in  some  way  suggested  to  her  a  public  speaker. 
He  had  big  shoulders  and  a  great  deal  of  coat — a 
vast  overcoat  over  a  frock  coat,  all  made  in  the  loos 
est  English  fashion.  She  had  now  reached  his  head 
— a  large  head  with  an  aggressive  forehead  and 
chin,  the  hair  dark  brown,  thin  on  top  and  at  the 
temples,  the  skin  pallid  but  healthy.  His  eyes 
were  bold  and  keen,  and  honest.  He  looked  a  tre 
mendous  man,  and  when  he  rose  and  advanced 
toward  her  she  wondered  how  such  bulk  could  be 
managed  with  so  much  grace.  "  An  idealist,"  she 
thought,  "  of  the  kind  that  has  the  energy  to  be 
very  useful  or  very  dangerous." 

"  You  are  alone,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  in  French 
that  was  fluent  but  American,  "  and  I  am  alone. 
Let  us  have  an  adventure." 

Emily's  glance  started  up  his  form  with  the 
proper  expression  of  icy  oblivion.  But  by  the  time 
it  reached  the  lofty  place  from  which  his  eyes  were 
looking  down  at  her  it  was  hardly  more  than  an 
expression  of  bewilderment.  To  give  him  an  icy 
stare  would  have  seemed  as  futile  as  for  the  valley 
to  try  to  look  scorn  upon  the  peak.  Before  Emily 
could  drop  her  glance,  she  had  seen  in  his  eyes  an 
irresistible  winning  smile,  as  confiding  as  a  boy's, 
respectful,  a  little  nervous,  delightfully  human  and 
friendly. 

"  I  can  see  what  you  are,"  he  continued  in 
French,  "  and  it  may  be  that  you  see  that  I  am  not 
untrustworthy.  I  am  lonely  and  shall  be  more  so 


144    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

if  you  fail  me.  It  seemed  to  me  that — pardon  me, 
if  I  intrude — you  looked  lonely  also  —  and  sad. 
Why  should  we  be  held  from  helping  each  the 
other  by  a  convention  that  sensible  people  laugh  at 
even  when  they  must  obey  it  ?  " 

His  voice  pleaded  his  cause  as  words  could  not ; 
and  there  was  a  certain  compulsion  in  it  also. 
Emily  felt  that  she  wished  to  yield,  that  it  would 
be  at  once  unkind  and  absurd  not  to  yield,  and 
that  she  must  yield.  The  impression  of  master 
ing  strength  was  new  and,  to  her  surprise,  agree 
able. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  she  said  slowly  in  French,  regard 
ing  him  with  unmistakable  straightforwardness  and 
simplicity.  "  I  am  depressed.  I  am  alone.  I  have 
been  looking  inside  too  much.  Let  us  see.  What 
do  you  propose?  " 

"We  might  go  to  the  Louvre.  It  is  near,  and 
perhaps  we  can  think  of  something  while  we  are 
there." 

They  walked  to  the  Louvre,  he  talking  apprecia 
tively  of  France  and  the  French  people.  He 
showed  that  he  thought  her  a  Frenchwoman  and 
she  did  not  undeceive  him.  She  could  not  decide 
what  his  occupation  was,  but  felt  that  he  must  be 
successful,  probably  famous,  in  it.  "  He  is  not  so 
tall  after  all,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  not  much  above 
six  feet.  And  he  must  be  about  forty-five." 

As  they  went  through  the  long  rooms,  she  found 
that  he  knew  the  paintings  and  statuary.  "  You 
paint  ?"  she  asked. 


EMBERS.  145 

"  No,"  he  replied  with  an  impatient  shrug.  "  I 
only  talk — talk,  talk,  talk,  until  I  am  sick  of  my 
self.  Again,  I  am  compelled  to  listen — listen  to 
the  outpourings  of  vanity  and  self-excuse  and  self- 
complacence  until  I  loathe  my  kind.  It  seems  to 
me  that  it  is  only  in  France  that  one  finds  any 
great  number  of  people  with  a  true  sense  of 
proportion." 

"  But  France  is  the  oldest,  you  know.  It  in 
herited  from  Greece  and  Rome  when  the  rest  of 
Europe  was  a  wilderness." 

"And  we  inherited  a  little  from  France,"  he 
'  said.  "  But,  unfortunately,  more  from  England.  I 
think  the  strongest  desire  I  have  is  to  see  my  coun- 
j  try  shake  off  the  English  influence — the  self-right- 
;  eousness,  the  snobbishness.  In  England  if  a  man 
of  brains  compels  recognition,  they  hasten  to  give 
him  a  title.  Their  sense  of  cpnsistency  in  snobbish 
ness  must  not  be  violated.  They  put  snobbishness 
into  their  church  service  and  create  a  snob-god 
who  calls  some  Englishmen  to  be  lords,  and  others 
to  be  servants." 

"  But  there  is  nothing  like  that  in  America  ?  " 

"  Not  officially,  and  perhaps  not  among  the  mass 
of  the  people.  But  in  New  York,  in  one  class  with 
which  my — my  business  compels  me  to  have  much 
to  do,  the  craze  for  imitating  England  is  rampant.  It 
is  absurd,  how  they  try  to  erect  snobbishness  into 
a  virtue." 

Emily  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  What  does  it 
matter  ?  "  she  said.  "  Caste  is  never  made  by  the 


146     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

man  who  looks  down,  but  always  by  the  man  who 
looks  up." 

"  But  it  is  evil.     It  is  a  sin  against  God.    It " 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  dispute  with  you,"  inter 
rupted  Emily.  "  But  let  us  not  disturb  God  in  his 
heaven.  We  are  talking  of  earth." 

•'  You  do  not  believe  in  God  ?  "  He  looked  at 
her  in  astonishment. 

"Do  you?" 

"  I— I  think  I  do.  I  assume  God.  Without  Him, 
life  would  be — monstrous." 

"  Yet  the  most  of  the  human  race  lives  without 
Him.  And  of  those  who  profess  to  believe  in  Him, 
no  two  have  the  same*  idea  of  Him.  Your  God  is 
a  democrat.  The  Englishman's  God  is  an  autocrat 
and  a  snob." 

"  And  your  God  ?  " 

Emily's  face  grew  sad.  "  Mine?  The  God  that 
I  see  behind  all  the  mischance  and  stupidity  and 
misery  of  this  world — is — "  She  shook  her  head. 
"  I  don't  know"  she  ende/d  vaguely. 

"  It  seems  strange  that  a  woman  so  womanly — 
looking  as  you  do,  should  feel  and  talk  thus." 

"  My  mode  of  life  has  made  me  see  much,  has  com 
pelled  me  to  do  my  own  thinking.  Besides,  I  am  a 
child  of  this  generation.  We  suspect  everything 
that  has  come  down  to  us  from  the  ignorant  past. 
Even  so  ardent  a  believer  as  you,  when  asked,  '  Do 
you  believe?' stammers,  '  I  think  I  do.'  " 

"  I  am  used  to  one-sided  arguments,"  said  the 
stranger  with  a  laugh.  "  Usually,  I  lay  down  the 
law  and  others  listen  in  silence  " 


EMBERS.  147 

Emily  looked  at  him  curiously.  Could  he  be  a 
minister  ?  No,  it  was  impossible,  He  was  too 
masculine,  too  powerful. 

"  Oh,  I  was  not  arguing,"  she  answered  lightly. 
"  I  was  only  trying  to  suggest  that  you  might  be 
more  charitable." 

"  I  confess,"  he  said,  "  that  I  am  always  talking 
to  convince  myself.  I  do  not  know  what  is  right 
or  what  is  wrong,  but  I  wish  to  know.  I  doubt, 
but  I  wish  to  believe.  I  despair,  but  I  wish  to 
hope." 

She  had  no  answer  and  they  were  silent  for  a  few 
minutes.  Then  he  began  : 

"  I  have  an  impulse  to  tell  you  what  I  would 
not  tell  my  oldest  and  dearest  friend — perhaps  be 
cause  we  are  two  utter  strangers  whose  paths  have 
crossed  in  their  wanderings  through  infinity  and 
will  never  cross  again.  Do  you  mind  if  I  speak  of 
myself?" 

"  No."  Emily  intensely  wished  to  hear.  "  But 
I  warn  you  that  our  paths  wpy  cross  again." 

"  That  does  not  matter.'  I  am  obeying  an  in 
stinct.  It  is  always  well  to  obey  instincts.  I  think 
now  that  the  instinct  which  made  me  speak  to  you 
in  the  first  place  was  this  instinct  to  tell  you.  But 
it  is  not  a  tragic  story  or  even  exciting.  I  am 
rather  well  known  in  the  community  where  I  live. 
I  am  what  we  call  in  America  a  self-made  man.  I 
come  from  the  people — not  from  ignorance  and 
crime  and  sensuality,  but  from  the  real  people — who 
think,  who  aspire,  who  advance,  who  work  and  take 


148    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

pleasure  and  pride  in  their  work,  the  people  who 
have  built  our  republic  which  will  perish  if  they  de 
cline." 

He  hesitated,  then  went  on  with  increasing  en 
ergy  :  "  I  am  a  clergyman.  I  went  into  the  min 
istry  because  I  ardently  believed  in  it,  saw  in  it  an 
opportunity  to  be  a  leader  of  men  in  the  paths 
which  I  hoped  it  would  help  me  to  follow.  I  have 
been  a  clergyman  for  twenty-five  years.  And  I 
have  ceased  to  believe  that  which  I  teach.  Louder 
than  I  can  shout  to  my  congregation,  louder  than 
my  conscience  can  shout  to  me,  a  voice  continually 
gives  me  the  lie."  He  threw  out  his  arm  with  a  ges 
ture  that  suggested  a  torrent  flinging  aside  a  dam. 
"I  preach  the  goodness  of  God,  and  I  never  make  a 
tour  among  the  poor  of  my  parish  that  I  do  not 
doubt  it.  I  preach  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  and 
I  never  look  out  upon  a  congregation  and  remem 
ber  what  an  infinite  multitude  of  those  same  com 
monplace,  imperfect  types  there  have  been,  that  I 
do  not  think  :  '  It  is  ridiculous  to  say  that  man,  the 
weak,  the  insignificant,  the  deformity,  is  an  immortal 
being,  each  individual  worth  preserving  through  eter 
nity/  I  preach  the  conventional  code  of  morals, 
and " 

"  You  ought  not  to  tell  me  these  things,"  said 
Emily,  as  he  paused.  She  felt  guilty  because  she 
was  permitting  him  to  think  her  a  Frenchwoman, 
when  she  was  of  his  own  country  and  city. 

"  Well — I  have  said  enough.  And  how  much 
good  it  has  done  me  to  confess !  You_-could  not 


EMBERS.  149 

possibly  have  a  baser  opinion  of  me  than  I  deserve. 
Telling  such  things  is  nothing  in  comparison  with 
living  them.  I  have  lied  and  lied  and  lied  so  long 
that  the  joy  of  telling  the  truth  intoxicates  me.  I 
am  like  a  man  crawling  up  out  of  years  in  a  slimy 
dungeon  to  the  light.  Do  you  suppose  it  would 
disturb  his  enjoyment  to  note  that  spectators  were 
commenting  upon  his  unlovely  appearance?" 

"  After  all,  what  you  tell  me  is  the  commonplace 
of  life.  Who  doesn't  live  lies,  cheating  himself  and 
others  ?  " 

"  But  I  do  not  wish  the  commonplace,  the  false, 
the  vulgar.  There  is  something  in  me  that  calls  for 
higher  things.  I  demand  a  good  God.  I  demand 
an  immortal  soul.  I  demand  a  right  that  is  clear 
and  absolute.  And  I  long  for  real  love — ennobling, 
inspiring.  Why  have  I  all  these  instincts  when  I 
am  compelled  to  live  the  petty,  swindling,  cringing 
life  of  a  brute  dominated  by  the  passion  for  self- 
preservation  ?  " 

Emily  thought  a  moment,  then  with  a  twinkle  of 
mockery  in  her  eyes,  yet  with  seriousness  too, 
quoted :  "  Seek,  and  ye  shall  find ;  knock,  and  it 
shall  be  opened  unto  you." 

He  smiled  as  the  waters  of  his  own  fountain  thus 
unexpectedly  struck  him  in  the  face.  "  But  my 
legs  are  weary,  and  my  knuckles  sore,"  he  replied. 
"  Still — what  is  there  to  do  but  to  persist  ?  One 
must  persist." 

"  Work  and  hope,"  said  Emily,  musingly.  And 
she  remembered  Marlowe's  "  work  and  love  "  ;  love 


150     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

had  gone,  but  hope — she  felt  a  sudden  fresh  up- 
springing  of  it  in  her  heart. 

When  they  set  out  from  the  hotel  she  had  been 
in  a  reckless  mood  of  despondency.  She  had  lost 
interest  in  her  work,  she  had  lost  faith  in  her  future 
— was  not  the  heart-interest  the  central  interest  of 
life,  and  what  had  become  of  her  heart-interest  ? 
This  stranger  to  whose  power  she  had  impulsively 
yielded  in  the  first  instance,  had  a  magical  effect 
upon  her.  His  pessimism  was  not  disturbing,  for 
beneath  it  lay  a  tremendous  belief  in  men  and  in 
destiny.  It  was  his  energy,  his  outgiving  of  a  com 
pelling  masculine  force,  that  aroused  her  to  courage 
again.  She  looked  at  him  gratefully  and  at  once 
began  to  compare  him  with  Marlowe.  "  What  a 
child  this  man  makes  him  seem,"  she  thought. 
"  This  is  the  sort  of  man  who  would  inspire  one. 
And  what  inspiration  to  do  or  to  be  am  I  getting 
from  my  husband  ?  " 

"  You  are  disgusted  with  me."  The  stranger  was 
studying  her  face. 

"  No — I  was  thinking  of  some  one  else,"  she  re 
plied — "  of  my  own  troubles."  And  then  she 
flushed  guiltily,  as  if  she  had  let  him  into  her  confi 
dence — "  a  traitor's  speech  "  she  thought.  Aloud 
she  said  :  "  I  must  go.  I  thank  you  for  the  good 
you  have  done  me.  I  can't  tell  you  how  or  why, 
but —  She  ended  abruptly  and  presently  added, 
"  I  mustn't  say  that  I  hope  we  shall  meet  again. 
You  see,  I  have  your  awful  secret." 

He  laughed — there  was  boyishness  in  his  laugh, 


EMBERS.  151 

but  it  was  not  boisterous.  "  You  terrify  me,"  he 
exclaimed.  Then,  reflectively,  "  I  have  an  instinct 
that  we  shall  meet  again." 

"  Perhaps.  Why  not  ?  It  would  be  far  stranger 
if  we  did  not  than  if  we  did  ?  " 

He  went  with  her  to  a  cab  and,  with  polite  con 
sideration,  left  her  before  she  could  give  her  address 
to  the  cabman.  "  I  wish  he  had  asked  to  see  me 
again,"  she  thought,  looking  after  his  tower-like 
figure  as  he  strode  away.  "  But  I  suspect  it  was 
best  not.  There  are  some  men  whom  it  is  not  wise 
to  see  too  much  of,  when  one  is  in  a  certain  mood. 
And  I  must  do  my  duty."  She  made  a  wry  face — 
an  exaggeration,  but  the  instinct  to  make  it  was 
genuine. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

ASHES. 

EMILY'S  "adventure"   lingered   with    in- 
creasing  vagueness  for  a  few  days,  then 
vanished    under   a   sudden    pressure    of 
work.     When  she  was  once  more  at  lei 
sure  Marlowe  came,  and  she  was  surprised 
by  the  vividness   and  persistence  with  which  her 
stranger  returned.     She    struggled  in  vain  against 
the  comparisons  that  were  forced  upon  her.     Mar 
lowe  seemed    to    her  a  clever   "understudy" — "a 
natural,  born,  incurable  understudy,"  she  thought, 
"  and  now  that  I'm  experienced  enough  to  be  able 
to  discriminate,  how  can  I  help  seeing  it?"     She 
was  weary  of  the  tricks  and  the  looks  of  a   man 
whom  she  now  regarded  as  a  trafficker  in  stolen  bits 
of  other  men's  individualities — and  his  tricks  and 
his  looks  were  all  there  was  left  of  him  for  her. 

"  Some  people — two  I  want  you  to  meet,  came 
with  me — that  is,  at  the  same  time,"  he  said. 
"  Let's  dine  with  them  at  Larue's  to-morrow  night." 
"  Why  not  to-night  ?  I've  an  engagement  to-mor 
row  night.  You  did  not  warn  me  that  you  were 
coming." 

Marlowe  looked  depressed.    "  Very  well,"  he  said, 
"  I  can  arrange  it,  I  think." 


ASHES.  153 

"  Are  they  Americans — these  friends  of  yours  ?  " 

There  was  a  strain  in  his  voice  as  he  answered, 
which  did  not  escape  Emily's  supersensitive  ears. 
"  No — English,"  he  said.  "  Lord  Kilboggan  and 
Miss  Fenton — the  actress.  You  may  have  heard 
of  her.  She  has  been  making  a  hit  in  the  play 
everyone  over  there  is  talking  about  and  running 
to  see — *  The  Morals  of  the  Marchioness.'  " 

"  Oh,  yes— the  play  with  the  title  role  left  out." 

"  It  is  pretty  '  thick' — and  Miss  Fenton  was  the 
marchioness.  But  she's  not  a  bit  like  that  in  pri 
vate  life.  Even  Kilboggan  gives  her  a  certificate 
of  good  character." 

"  Even  Kilboggan  ?  " 

"  He's  such  a  scoundrel.  He  blackguards  every, 
one.  But  he'll  amuse  you.  He's  witty  and  good- 
looking  and  one  of  those  fascinating  financial  mys 
teries.  He  has  no  known  source  of  income,  yet  he's 
always  idle,  always  well  dressed,  and  always  in  funds. 
He  would  have  been  a  famous  adventurer  if  he'd 
lived  a  hundred  years  ago." 

"  But  as  he  lives  in  this  practical  age,  he  comes 
dangerously  near  to  being  a  plain  '  dead  beat ' — is 
that  it  ?  "  Emily  said  this  carelessly  enough,  but 
something  in  her  manner  made  Marlowe  wince. 

"  Oh,  wait  until  you  see  him.  We  can't  carry 
our  American  ideas  among  these  English.  They 
look  upon  work  as  a  greater  disgrace  than  having  a 
mysterious  income.  Kilboggan  is  liked  by  every 
one,  except  women  with  daughters  to  marry  off  and 
husbands  whose  vanity  is  tempered  by  misgivings." 


154    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

"  And  what  is  your  friend  doing  in  Miss  Fentons' 
train  ?  " 

"  Well— at  first  I  didn't  know  what  to  make  of  it. 
But  afterward  I  saw  that  I  was  probably  mistaken. 
I  suppose  she  tolerates  him  because  he's  an  earl. 
It's  in  the  blood." 

"  And  why  do  you  tolerate  him  ?  "  Emily's  tone 
was  teasing,  but  it  made  Marlowe  wince  again. 

"  I  don't.  I  went  with  Denby — the  theatrical 
man  over  in  New  York — several  times  to  see  Miss 
Fenton.  He  has  engaged  her  for  next  season.  And 
Kilboggan  was  there  or  joined  us  at  dinner  or  supper. 
They  were  coming  over  to  Paris  at  the  same  time. 
I  thought  it  might  amuse  you  to  meet  them." 

Marlowe's  look  and  speech  were  frank,  yet  in 
stinctively  Emily  paused  curiously  upon  his  eager 
certificate  of  good  character  to  Miss  Fenton  in  face 
of  circumstances  which  a  man  of  his  experience 
would  regard  as  conclusive.  Also  she  was  puzzled 
by  the  elaborateness  of  his  explanation.  She 
wished  to  sec;  Miss  Fenton. 

They  met  that  evening  at  Larue's  and  dined 
downstairs.  Emily  instantly  noted  that  Marlowe's 
description  of  Kilboggan  was  accurate.  "  How  can 
any  one  be  fooled  by  these  frauds  ?  "  she  thought. 
"  He  carries  his  character  in  his  face,  as  they  all  do. 
I  suppose  the  reason  they  get  on  is  because  the 
first  impression  wears  away."  Then  she  passed  to 
her  real  interest  in  the  party — Miss  Fenton.  Her 
first  thought  was — "  How  beautiful !  "  Her  second 
thought — "  How  shallow  and  stupid  !  " 


ASHES.  155 

Victoria  Fenton  was  tall  and  thin — obtrusively 
thin.  Her  arms  and  legs  were  long,  and  they  and 
her  narrow  hips  and  the  great  distance  from  her 
chin  to  the  swell  of  her  bosom  combined  to  give 
her  an  appearance  of  snake-like  grace — uncanny, 
sensuous,  morbidly  fascinating.  Her  features  were 
perfectly  regular,  her  skin  like  an  Amsterdam  baby's, 
her  eyes  deep  brown,  and  her  hair  heavy  ropes  of 
gold.  Her  eyes  seemed  to  be  brilliant ;  but  when 
Emily  looked  again,  she  saw  that  they  were  dull, 
and  that  it  was  the  colouring  of  her  cheeks  which 
made  them  seem  bright.  In  the  mindless  expres 
sion  of  her  eyes,  in  her  coarse,  wide  mouth  and  long 
white  teeth,  Emily  found  the  real  woman.  And 
she  understood  why  Miss  Fenton  could  say  little, 
and  eat  and  drink  greedily,  and  still  could  shine. 

But,  before  Miss  Fenton  began  to  exhibit  her 
appetite,  Emily  had  made  another  discovery.  As 
she  and  Marlowe  entered  Larue's,  Victoria  gave  him 
a  look  of  greeting  which  a  less  sagacious  woman 
than  she  would  not  have  misunderstood.  It  was 
unmistakably  the  look  of  potential  proprietorship. 

Emily  glanced  swiftly  but  stealthily  at  Marlowe 
by  way  of  the  mirror  behind  the  table.  He  was 
wearing  the  expression  of  patient  and  bored  indif 
ference  which  had  become  habitual  with  him  since 
he  had  been  associating  with  Englishmen.  Their 
eyes  met  in  the  mirror — "  He  is  trying  to  see  how 
I  took  that  woman's  look  at  him,"  she  thought, 
contemptuously.  "  But  he  must  have  known  in 
advance  that  she  would  betray  herself  and  him. 


156    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

He  must  have  brought  me  here  deliberately  to  see 
it  or  brought  her  here  to  see  me — or  both."  A 
little  further  reflection,  and  suspicion  became  cer 
tainty,  and  her  eyelids  hid  a  look  of  scorn. 

She  made  herself  agreeable  to  Kilboggan,  who 
proved  to  be  amusing.  As  soon  as  the  food  and 
drink  came,  Victoria  neglected  Marlowe.  He, 
after  struggling  to  draw  her  out  and  succeeding  in 
getting  only  dull  or  silly  commonplaces,  became 
silent  and  ill-at-ease.  He  felt  that  so  far  as  rousing 
Emily's  jealousy  was  concerned,  he  had  failed  dis 
mally,  "  Victoria  is  at  her  worst  to-night,"  he 
thought.  "  She  couldn't  make  anybody  jealous.'* 
But  he  had  not  the  acuteness  to  see  that  Emily  had 
penetrated  his  plan — if  he  had  been  thus  acute,  he 
would  not  have  tried  such  a  scheme,  desperate 
though  he  was. 

All  he  had  accomplished  was  to  bring  the  two 
women  before  his  eyes  and  mind  in  the  sharpest 
possible  contrast,  and  so  increase  his  own  infatua 
tion  for  Emily.  The  climax  of  his  discomfiture 
came  when  Victoria,  sated  by  what  she  had  eaten 
and  inflamed  by  what  she  had  drunk,  began  to 
scowl  jealously  at  Emily  and  Kilboggan.  But  Mar 
lowe  did  not  observe  this ;  his  whole  mind  was 
absorbed  in  Emily.  He  was  not  disturbed  by  her 
politeness  to  Kilboggan  ;  he  hardly  noted  it.  He 
was  revolving  her  fascinations,  her  capriciousness, 
her  unreachableness.  "  I  have  laughed  at  married 
men,"  he  said  to  himself.  "They  are  revenged. 
Of  all  husbands  I  am  the  most  ridiculous."  And 


ASHES.  157 

he  began  to  see  the  merits  of  the  system  of  lock 
ing  women  away  in  harems. 

He  and  she  drove  to  her  apartment  in  silence. 
He  sent  away  the  cab  and  joined  her  at  the  outside 
door  which  the  concierge  had  opened.  "  Good 
night."  She  spoke  distantly,  standing  in  the  door 
way  as  if  she  expected  him  to  leave.  "  I'm  afraid 
I  can't  see  you  to-morrow.  Theresa  and  her  Gen 
eral  arrived  at  the  Ritz  to-night  from  Egypt,  and 
I've  engaged  to  lunch  and  drive  and  dine  with 
them." 

"  I  will  go  up  with  you,"  he  said,  as  if  she  had 
not  spoken.  There  was  sullen  resolve  in  his  tone, 
and  so  busy  was  he  with  his  internal  commotion 
that  he  did  not  note  the  danger  fire  in  her  eyes. 
But  she  decided  that  it  would  not  be  wise  to  oppose 
him  there.  When  they  were  in  her  tiny  salon,  she 
seated  herself,  after  a  significant  glance  at  the  clock. 
He  lit  a  cigarette  and  leaned  against  the  mantel 
shelf.  He  could  look  down  at  her — if  she  had  been 
standing  also,  their  eyes  would  have  been  upon  a 
level. 

"  How  repellent  he  looks,"  she  thought,  as  she 
watched  him  expectantly.  "And  just  when  he 
needs  to  appear  at  his  best." 

"  Emily,"  he  began  with  forced  calmness,  "  the 
time  has  come  when  we  must  have  a  plain  talk, 
It  can't  be  put  off  any  longer." 

She  was  sitting  with  her  arms  and  her  loosely- 
clasped,  still  gloved  hands  upon  the  table,  staring 
across  it  into  the  fire.  "  I  must  not  anger  him," 


158    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

she  was  saying  to  herself.  "The  time  has  passed 
when  a  plain  talk  would  do  any  good."  Aloud  she 
said :  '•  I'm  tired,  George — and  not  in  a  good 
humour.  Can't  you " 

Her  impatience  to  be  rid  of  him  made  him  des 
perate.  "  I  must  speak,  Emily,  I  must,"  he  replied. 
"  For  many  months — in  fact  for  nearly  a  year  of 
our  year  and  four  months — I've  seen  that  our  plan 
was  a  failure.  We're  neither  bound  nor  free,  neither 
married  nor  single.  We — I,  at  least — am  exposed 
to — all  sorts  of  temptations.  I  need  you — your 
sympathy,  your  companionship — all  the  time.  I 
see  you  only  often  enough  to  tantalise  me,  to  keep 
me  in  a  turmoil  that  makes  happiness  impossible. 
And,"  he  looked  at  her  uneasily,  appealingly, 
""each  time  I  see  you,  I  find  or  seem  to  find  that 
you  have  drifted  further  away  from  me." 

She  did  not  break  the  silence — she  did  not  know 
what  to  say.  To  be  frank  was  to  anger  him.  To 
evade  was  impossible. 

"  Emily,"  he  went  on,  "  you  know  that  I  love  you. 
I  wish  you  to  be  happy  and  I  know  that  you  don't 
wish  me  to  be  miserable.  I  ask  you  to  give  up,  or 
at  least  put  aside  for  the  time,  these  ideas  of  yours. 
Let  us  announce  our  marriage  and  try  to  work  out 
our  lives  in  the  way  that  the  experience  of  the 
world  has  found  best.  Let  us  be  happy  again — as 
we  were  in  the  beginning." 

His  voice  vibrated  with  emotion.  She  sighed 
and  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes  and  her  voice  was 
trembling  as  she  answered  :  "  There  isn't  anything 


ASHES.  159 

I  wouldn't  do,  George,  to  bring  back  the  happiness 
we  had.  But — "  she  shook  her  head  mournfully, 
"  it  is  gone,  dear."  A  tear  escaped  and  rolled 
down  her  cheek.  "  It's  gone." 

He  was  deceived  by  her  manner  and  by  his  hopes 
and  longings  into  believing  that  he  was  not  appeal 
ing  in  vain  ;  and  there  came  back  to  him  some  of 
the  self-confidence  that  had  so  often  won  for  him 
with  women.  "  Not  if  we  both  wish  it,  and  will  it, 
and  try  for  it,  Emily." 

"  It's  gone,"  she  repeated,  "  gone.  We  can't 
call  it  back." 

"  Why  do  you  say  that,  dear?  " 

"  Don't  ask  me.  I  can't  be  untruthful  with  you, 
and  telling  the  truth  would  only  rouse  the  worst 
in  us  both.  You  know,  George,  that  I  wouldn't  be 
hopeless  about  it,  if  there  were  any  hope.  We've 
drifted  apart.  We  can  go  on  as  we  are  now — 
friends.  Or  we  can — can — drift  still  further — apart. 
But  we  can't  come  together  again." 

"  Those  are  very  serious  words,  my  dear,"  he 
said,  trying  to  hide  his  anger.  "  Don't  you  think 
you  owe  me  an  explanation?  " 

"  Please,  George — let  me  write  it  to  you,  if  you 
must  have  it.  Spare  me.  It  is  so  hard  to  speak! 
honestly.  Please !  " 

"  If  you  can  find  the  courage  to  speak,  I  can  find 
the  patience  to  listen,"  he  said  with  sarcasm.  "  As 
we  are  both  intelligent  and  sensible,  I  don't  think 
you  need  be  alarmed  about  there  being  a  '  scene.' 
What  is  the  matter,  Emily  ?  Let  us  clear  the  air." 


160    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

"We've  changed — that's  all.  I'm  not  regretting 
what  we  did.  I  wouldn't  give  it  up  for  anything. 
But — we've  changed." 

"/have  not  changed.  I'm  the  same  now  as  then, 
except  that  I  appreciate  you  more  than  I  did  at 
first.  Month  by  month  you've  grown  dearer  to  me. 
And " 

"  Well,  then,  it  is  I  who  have  changed,"  she  in 
terrupted,  desperately.  "  It's  not  strange,  is  it, 
George?  I  was,  in  a  way,  inexperienced  when  we 
were  married,  though  I  didn't  think  so.  And  life 
looks  very  different  to  me  now."  She  could  not  go 
on  without  telling  him  that  she  had  found  him  out, 
without  telling  him  how  he  had  shrivelled  and 
shrunk  until  the  garb  of  the  ideal  in  which  she  had 
once  clothed  him  was  now  a  giant's  suit  upon  a 
pigmy — pitiful,  ridiculous.  "  How  can  I  help  it 
that  my  mind  has  changed  ?  I  thought  so  and  so — 
I  no  longer  think  so  and  so,  Put  yourself  in  my 
place,  dear — the  same  thing  might  have  happened 
to  you  about  me." 

Many  times  the  very  same  ideas  had  formed  in 
his  mind  as  he  had  exhausted  his  interest  in  one 
woman  after  another.  They  were  familiar  to  him — 
these  ideas.  And  how  they  mocked  him  now  !  It 
seemed  incredible  that  he,  hitherto  always  the  one 
who  had  broken  it  off,  should  be  in  this  humiliating 
position. 

"  It's  all  due  to  that  absurd  plan  of  ours,"  he 
said  bitterly.  "  If  we  had  gone  about  marriage 
in  a  sensible  way,  we  should  have  grown  together. 


ASHES.  161 

As  it  is,  you've  exaggerated  trifles  into  mountains 
and  are  letting  them  crush  our  happiness  to  death." 
His  tone  became  an  appeal.  "  Emily — my  dear — 
my  wife — you  must  not !  " 

She  did  not  answer.  "  If  we'd  lived  together  I'd 
have  found  him  out  just  the  same — more  quickly," 
she  thought.  "  And  either  I'd  have  degraded  my 
self  through  timidity  and  dependence,  or  else  I'd 
have  left  him." 

"  You  admit  that  our  plan  has  been  a  failure  ?  " 
he  went  on. 
She  nodded. 

"  Then  we  must  take  the  alternative." 
She  grew  pale  and  looked  at  him  with  dread  in 
her  eyes — the  universal  human  dread  of  finalities. 
"  We  must  try  my  plan,"  he  said.     "  We  must  try 
married  life  in  the  way  that  has  succeeded — at  least 
in  some    fashion — far    oftener    than  it  has  failed." 
"  Oh  !  "     She  felt  relieved,  but  also  she  regretted 
that  he  had  not    spoken    as    she  feared  he  would 
speak.     She  paused  to  gather  courage,  turned  her 
face  almost  humbly  up  to  him,  and  said :     "  I  wish 
I  could,  George.     But    don't  urge  me  to  do  that. 
Let  us  go  on  as  we  are,  until — until — Let  us  wait. 
Let  us- 
He  threw  back  his  head  haughtily.     The  patience 
of  his  vanity  was  worn  through.     "  No,"  he  said. 
"  That  would  be  folly.     It  must  be  settled  one  way 
or   the    other,    Emily."     He    looked    at    her,    his 
courage  quailing  before  the  boldness  of  his  words. 
But  he  saw  that  she  was  white  and  trembling,  and 


i&2     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

misunderstood  it.  He  said  to  himself :  "  She 
must  be  firmly  dealt  with.  She's  giving  in — a 
woman  always  does  in  the  last  ditch." 

"  No,"  he  repeated.  "  The  door  must  be  either 
open  or  shut.  Either  I  am  your  husband,  or  I  go 
/'out  of  your  life." 

"You  can't  mean  that,  George?"  She  was  so 
agitated  that  she  rose  and  came  round  the  table  to 
face  him.  "  Why  shouldn't  we  wait — and  hope  ? 
We  still  care  each  for  the  other,  and — it  hurts,  oh, 
how  it  hurts — even  to  think  of  you  as  out  of  my 
life." 

He  believed  that  she  was  yielding.  He  put  his 
hand  on  her  arm.  "  Dearest,  there  has  been  too 
much  indecision  already,  You  must  choose  be 
tween  your  theories  and  our  happiness.  Which 
will  you  take  ?  You  must  choose  here  and  now. 
Shall  I  go  or  stay  ?  " 

She  went  slowly  back  to  her  chair  and  sat  down 
and  again  stared  into  the  fire.  "  To-morrow,"  she 
said  at  last.  "  I  will  decide  to-morrow." 

"  No — to-night — now."  He  went  to  her  and  sat 
beside  her.  He  put  his  arm  around  her.  "  I  love 
you — I  love  you,  "  he  said  in  a  low  tone,  kissing 
her.  "  You — my  dearest — how  can  you  be  so 
cruel  ?  Love  is  best.  Let  us  be  happy." 

At  the  clasp  of  his  arm  and  the  touch  of  his  lips, 
once  so  potent  to  thrill  her,  she  grew  cold  all  over. 

What  he  had  thought  would  be  the  triumphant 
climax  of  his  appeal  made  every  nerve  in  her  body 
cry  out  in  protest  against  a  future  spent  with  him. 


ASHES.  163 

She  would  have  pushed  him  away,  if  she  had  not 
pitied  him  and  wished  not  to  offend  him.  "  Don't 
ask  me  to  decide  to-night,"  she  pleaded.  "  Please  !  " 

"  But  you  have  decided,  dearest.  We  shall  be 
happy.  We  shall " 

She  gradually  drew  away  from  him,  and  to  the 
surface  of  her  expression  rose  that  iron  inflexibility, 
usually  so  completely  concealed  by  her  beauty  and 
gentleness  and  sweetness.  "  If  I  must  decide — if 
you  force  me  to  decide,  then — George,  my  heart  is 
aching  with  the  past,  aching  with  the  loneliness 
that  stares  horribly  from  the  future.  But  I  can 
not,  I  cannot  do  as  you  ask."  And  she  burst  into- 
tears,  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  were  breaking.  "  I 
cannot,"  she  repeated.  "  I  must  not." 

All  the  ugliness  which  years  of  unbridled  indul 
gence  of  his  vanity  had  bred  in  him  was  roused  by 
her  words.  Such  insolence  from  a  woman,  one  of 
the  sex  that  had  been  his  willing,  yielding  instrument 
to  amusement,  and  that  woman  his  wife  !  But  he 
had  talked  so  freely  to  her  of  his  alleged  beliefs  in 
the  equality  of  the  sexes,  he  had  urged  and  boasted 
and  professed  so  earnestly,  that  he  did  not  dare  un 
mask  himself.  Instead,  with  an  effort  at  self-con 
trol  that  whitened  his  lips,  he  said:  "You  no 
doubt  have  reasons  for  this — this  remarkable  atti 
tude.  Might  I  venture  to  inquire  what  they  are  ? 
I  do  not  fancy  the  idea  of  being  condemned  un 
heard." 

"  Unheard?  7—  condemn  you  unheard  !  George,, 
do  not  be  unjust  to  me.  You  know — vou  must 


164    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

know — that  there  was  not  a  moment  when  my 
heart  was  not  pleading  your  cause.  Do  you  think 
I  have  not  suffered  as  I  saw  my  love  being  mur 
dered — my  love  wh-ich  I  held  sacred  while  you 
were  outraging  and  desecrating  it." 
.  "  It  is  incredible  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Emily,  who 
has  been  lying  to  you  about  me  ?  Who  has  been 
poisoning  your  mind  against  me?  " 

"  You — George."  She  said  it  quietly,  sadly. 
"  No  one  else  in  all  this  world  could  have  destroyed 
you  with  me." 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  he  protested.  But  his 
eyes  shifted  rapidly,  then  turned  away  from  her 
full  gaze,  fixed  upon  him  without  resentment  or 
anger,  with  only  sorrow  and  a  desire  to  spare  him 
pain. 

"  I  could  remind  you  of  several  things — you 
remember  them,  do  you  not?  But  they  were  not 
the  real  cause.  It  was,  I  think,  the  little  things — 
it  always  is  the  little  things,  like  drops  of  water 
wearing  away  the  stone.  And  they  wore  away  the 
feeling  I  had  for  you — carried  it  away  grain  by  grain. 
Forgive  me,  George — ."  The  tears  were  streaming 
down  her  face.  "  I  loved  you — you  were  my  life — 
'I  have  lost  you.  And  I'm  alone — and  a  woman. 
No,  no — don't  misunderstand  my  crying — my  love 
is  dead.  Sometimes  I  think  I  ought  to  hate  you 
for  killing  it.  But  I  don't." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  springing  to  his  feet.  His 
lips  were  drawn  back  in  a  sneer  and  he  was  shaking 
with  anger.  He  took  up  his  hat  and  coat.  "  I  shall 


ASHES.  165 

not  intrude  longer."  He  bowed  with  mock  respect. 
"  Good  night — good-bye." 

"  George  !  "  She  started  up.  "  We  must  not 
part,  with  you  in  anger  against  me.'* 

He  gave  her  a  furious  look  and  left  the  apartment. 
"  What  a  marriage  !  "  he  said  to  himself.  "  Bah  ! 
She'll  send  me  a  note  in  the  morning."  But  this 
prophecy  was  instantly  faced  with  the  memory  of 
her  expression  as  she  gave  her  decision. 

And  Emily  did  not  send  for  him.  She  tore  up 
in  the  morning  the  note  she  rose  in  the  night  to 
write. 

The  next  evening  while  she  and  the  Waylands 
were  dining  at  the  Ritz,  Victoria  Fenton  came  in 
with  Kilboggan  and  sat  where  Emily  could  study 
her  at  leisure. 

"Isn't  that  a  beautiful  woman?"  she  said  to 
Theresa. 

"  Yes — a  gorgeous  animal,"  Theresa  replied,  after 
a  critical  survey.  "  And  how  she  does  love  food  !  " 

Emily  was  grateful. 

"  She  looks  rather  common  too,"  Theresa  con 
tinued.  "  What  a  bad  face  the  fellow  she's  with 
has." 

Emily  tried  to  extract  comfort  out  of  these  con- 
fVrmations  of  her  opinion  of  the  couple  she  was 
blaming  for  Marlowe's  forcing  the  inevitable  issue 
at  a  most  inopportune  time.  But  her  spirits  refused 
to  rise.  "  It's  of  no  use  to  deny  it,"  she  said  to  her 
self,  with  a  sick  and  sinking  heart.  "  I  shall  miss 
him  dreadfully.  What  can  take  his  place  ?  " 


166    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

She  wished  to  be  alone  ;  the  dinner  seemed  an 
interminable  prospect,  was  an  hour  and  a  half  of 
counted  and  lingering  minutes.  When  the  coffee 
was  served  she  announced  a  severe  headache,  insisted 
on  going  at  once  and  alone,  would  permit  escort 
only  to  a  cab.  As  she  went  she  seemed  to  be  pass 
ing,  deserted  and  forlorn^  through  a  world  of  com 
rades  and  lovers — men  two  and  two,  women  two 
and  two,  men  and  women  together  in  pairs  or  in 
parties.  Out  in  the  Champs  Elysees,  stars  and  soft, 
warm  air,  and  love-inviting  shadows  among  the  trees  ; 
here  and  there  the  sudden  dazzling  blaze  of  the 
lights  of  a  cafe  chantant,  and  music ;  a  multitude  of 
cabs  rolling  by,  laughter  or  a  suggestion  of  romance 
floating  in  the  wake  of  each.  "  Hide  yourself !  " 
the  city  and  the  night  were  saying  to  her,  "  Hide 
your  heartache  !  Nobody  cares,  nobody  wishes  to 
see  !  " 

And  she  hastened  to  hide  herself,  to  lie  stunned 
in  the  beat  of  a  black  and  bitter  sea. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

"  THE  REAL  TRAGEDY  OF  LIFE.'* 

MARLOWE  had  been  held   above   his 
normal  self,  not  by  Emily,  but   by 
an  exalting  love  for  her.     Except  in 
occasional  momentary  moods  of  ex 
uberant  animalism,  he  had  not  been 
low  and  coarse.     Whatever  else  might  be  said  of 
the  love  affairs  whose  tombstones  strewed  his  past, 
it  could  not  be  said  that    they  were  degrading  to 
the  parties  at  interest.     But  there  was  in  his  mind 
a  wide  remove  between  all  the  others  and  Emily. 
His  love  for  her  was  as  far  above  him  as  her  love 
for  him  after  she  ceased  to  respect  him  had  been 
beneath  her.     And  her  courage  and  independence 
came  to  her  rescue  none  too  soon.     He  could  not 
much  longer  have  persisted  in  a  state  so  unnatural 
to  his  character  and  habit.     Indeed  it  was  unconsci 
ously  the  desire  to  get  her  where  he  could  gradually 
lead  her  down  to  his  fixed  and  unchangeable  level, 
that  forced  him  on  to  join  that  disastrous  issue. 

As  he  journeyed  toward  London  the  next  night, 
he  was  industriously  preparing  to  eject  love  for  her 
by  a  vigorous  campaign  of  consolation.  Vanity 
had  never  ceased  to  rule  him.  It  had  tolerated 


168    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

love  so  long  as  love  seemed  to  be  cooperating  with 
it.  It  now  resumed  unchecked  sway. 

Before  he  went  to  Paris  he  was  much  stirred  by 
Victoria's  beauty.  He  thought  that  fear  of  her 
becoming  a  menace  to  his  loyalty  had  caused  him 
to  appeal  to  Emily.  And  naturally  he  now  turned 
toward  Victoria,  and  made  ready  for  a  deliberately 
reckless  infatuation.  He  plunged  the  very  after 
noon  of  his  return  to  London,  and  he  was  soon 
succeeding  beyond  the  bounds  which  his  judgment 
had  set  in  the  planning.  This  triumph  over  a 
humilating  defeat  was  won  by  many  and  powerful 
allies — resentment  against  Emily  for  her  wounds  to 
his  vanity,  craving  for  consolation,  a  vigorous  and 
passionate  imagination,  the  desire  to  show  his 
superiority  over  the  fascinating  Kilboggan,  and, 
strongest  of  all,  Victoria's  fame  and  extraordinary 
physical  charms.  If  Emily  could  have  looked  into 
his  mind  two  weeks  after  he  left  her,  she  would 
have  been  much  chagrined,  and  would  no  doubt 
have  fallen  into  the  error  of  fancying  that  his  love 
had  not  been  genuine  and,  for  him,  deep. 

He  erected  Victoria  into  an  idol,  put  his  good 
sense  out  of  commission,  fell  down  and  worshipped. 
He  found  her  a  reincarnation  of  some  wonderful 
Greek  woman  who  had  inspired  the  sculptors  of 
Pericles.  He  wrote  her  burning  letters.  When  he 
was  with  her  he  gave  her  no  opportunity  to  show 
him  whether  she  was  wise  or  silly,  deep  or  shallow, 
intelligent  or  stupid.  When  she  did  speak  he  heard, 
not  her  words,  but  only  the  vibrations  of  that  voice 


REAL  TRAGEDY  OF  LIFE.     169 

which  had  made  her  the  success  of  the  season — the 
voice  that  entranced  all  and  soon  seemed  to  him  to 
strike  the  chord  to  which  every  fibre  of  his  every 
nerve  responded.  He  dreamed  of  those  gold  braids, 
unwound  and  showering  about  those  strange,  lean, 
maddening  shoulders  and  arms  of  hers. 

In  that  mood,  experience,  insight  into  the  ways 
and  motives  of  women  went  for  no  more  than  in 
any  other  mood  of  any  other  mode  of  love.  He 
knew  that  he  was  in  a  delirium,  incapable  of  reason 
or  judgment.  But  he  had  no  desire  to  abate,  per- 
haps  destroy,  his  pleasure  by  sobering  and  steady 
ing  himself. 

He  convinced  himself  that  Kilboggan  was  an  un 
satisfied  admirer  of  Victoria.  When  Kilboggan 
left  her  to  marry  the  rich  wife  his  mother  had  at 
last  found  for  him,  he  believed  that  the  "  noble 
man  "  had  been  driven  away  by  Victoria  because 
she  feared  her  beloved  Marlowe  disapproved  of  him. 
And  when  he  found  that  Victoria  would  never  be 
his  until  they  should  marry,  he  began  to  cast  about 
to  free  himself.  After  drafting  and  discarding 
many  letters,  and  just  when  he  was  in  despair — 
"  It's  impossible  even  to  begin  right  " — he  had  what 
seemed  to  him  an  inspiration.  "  The  telegraph ! 
One  does  not  have  to  begin  or  end  a  telegram  ;  and 
it  can  be  abrupt  without  jar,  and  terse  without 
baldness."  He  sent  away  his  very  first  effort : 
EMILY  BROMFIELD, 

—  Boulevard  Haussmann,  Paris. 

Will  you  consent  to  quiet  Dakota 
divorce  on  ground  of  incompatibility.     No  danger  publicity. 


170    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

You  will  not  need  leave  Paris  or  take  any  trouble   whatever. 
Please  telegraph  answer  to  —  Dover  Street,  Piccadilly. 

MARLOWE. 

He  was  so  bent  upon  his  plan  that  not  until  he 
had  handed  in  the  telegram  did  the  other  side  of 
what  he  was  doing  come  forcibly  to  him.  With  a 
sudden  explosion  there  were  flung  to  the  surface  of 
his  mind  from  deep  down  where  Emily  was  uneas 
ily  buried,  a  mass  of  memories,  longings,  hopes, 
remnants  of  tenderness  and  love,  regrets,  remorse. 
He  had  no  definite  impulse  to  recall  the  telegram 
but,  as  he  went  out  into  the  thronged  and  choked 
Strand,  he  forgot  where  he  was  and  let  the  crowd 
bump  and  thump  and  drift  him  into  a  doorway  ;  and 
he  stood  there,  not  thinking,  but  feeling — forlorn, 
acutely  sensitive  of  the  loneliness  and  futility  of  life. 

"  I  was  just  going  to  ask  you  to  join  me  at 
luncheon,"  said  a  man  at  his  side — Blackwell,  an 
old  acquaintance.  "  But  if  you  feel  as  you  look,  I 
prefer  my  own  thoughts." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  a  paragraph  I  read  in  Figaro 
this  morning,"  said  Marlowe.  "  It  went  on  to  say 
that  the  real  tragedy  of  life  is  not  the  fall  of  splen 
did  fortunes,  nor  the  death  of  those  who  are  beloved, 
nor  any  other  of  the  obvious  calamities,  but  the 
petty,  inglorious  endings  of  friendships  and  loves 
that  have  seemed  eternal." 

When  Marlowe  went  to  his  lodgings  after  lunch 
eon,  he  found  Emily's  answer  :  "  Certainly,  and  I 
know  I  can  trust  you  completely." 

He    expected  a  note  from  her,  but  none  came. 


REAL  TRAGEDY  OF  LIFE.    171 

He  cabled  for  leave  of  absence  and  in  the  following 
week  sailed  for  New  York.  He  "  established  a 
residence  "  one  morning  at  Petersville,  an  obscure 
county  seat  in  a  remote  corner  of  South  Dakota, 
engaged  a  lawyer  for  himself  and  another  for 
Emily  in  the  afternoon,  and  in  the  evening  set  out 
for  New  York.  At  the  end  of  three  months,  spent 
in  New  York,  he  returned  to  his  "  residence  " — a 
bedroom  in  Petersville.  The  case  was  called  the 
afternoon  of  his  arrival.  Emily  "put  in  an  appear 
ance  "  through  her  lawyer,  and  he  submitted  to  the 
court  a  letter  from  her  in  which  she  authorised  him 
to  act  for  her,  and  declared  that  she  would  never 
return  to  her  husband.  After  a  trial  which  lasted 
a  minute  and  three-quarters — consumed  in  reading 
Emily's  letter  and  in  Marlowe's  testimony — the 
divorce  was  granted.  The  only  publicity  was 
the  never-read  record  of  the  Petersville  court. 

Marlowe  reappeared  in  London  after  an  absence 
of  three  months  and  three  weeks.  When  Victoria 
completed  her  tour  of  the  provinces,  they  were 
married  and  went  down  to  the  South  Coast  for  the 
honeymoon. 

The  climax  of  a  series  of  thunderclaps  in  revela 
tion  of  Victoria  as  an  intimate  personality  came  at 
breakfast  the  next  morning.  She  was  more  beauti 
ful  than  he  had  ever  seen  her,  and  her  voice  had  its 
same  searching  vibrations.  But  he  could  think  of 
neither  as  he  watched  her  "  tackle  "—the  only  word 
which  seemed  to  him  descriptive — three  enormous 
mutton  chops  in  rapid  succession.  He  noted  each 


172     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

time  her  long  white  teeth  closed  upon  a  mouthful 
of  chop  and  potato ;  and  as  she  chewed  with  now 
one  cheek  and  now  the  other  distended  and  with 
her  glorious  eyes  bright  like  a  feeding  beast's,  he 
repeated  to  himself  again  and  again :  "  My  God, 
what  have  I  done  ?  " — not  tragically,  but  with  a 
keen  sense  of  his  own  absurdity.  He  turned  away 
from  her  and  stood  looking  out  across  the  channel 
toward  France — toward  Emily. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  he  said  to  himself.  "  What 
shall  I  do  ?  " 

He  was  compelled  to  admit  that  she  was  not  in 
the  least  to  blame.  She  had  made  no  pretences  to 
him.  She  had  simply  accepted  what  he  cast  at  her 
feet,  what  he  fell  on  his  knees  to  beg  her  to  take.  She 
had  not  deceived  him.  Her  hair,  her  teeth — what 
greedy,  gluttonous  teeth! — her  long,  slender  form, 
her  voice,  all  were  precisely  as  they  had  promised. 
He  went  over  their  conversations.  He  remembered 
much  that  she  had  said  —  brief  commonplaces, 
phrases  which  revealed  her,  but  which  he  thought 
wonderful  as  they  came  to  his  entranced  ears  upon 
that  shimmering  stream  of  sound.  Not  an  idea ! 
Not  an  intelligent  thought  except  those  repeated — 
with  full  credit — from  the  conversation  of  others. 

"  Fool !  Fool !  "  he  said  to  himself.  "  I  am  the 
most  ridiculous  of  men.  If  I  tried  to  speak,  I 
should  certainly  bray." 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her  as  she  sat  with  her 
back  toward  him.  Her  hair  was  caught  up  loosely, 
coil  on  coil  of  dull  gold.  It  just  reveafed  the  nape 


REAL  TRAGEDY  OF  LIFE.    173 

of  her  neck  above  the  lace  of  her  dressing  gown. 
"  Yes,  it  is  a  beautiful  neck  !  She  is  a  beautiful 
woman."  Yet  the  thought  that  that  beauty  was 
his,  thrust  at  him  like  the  red-hot  fork  of  a  teasing 
devil.  "  It  is  what  I  deserve,"  he  said.  "  But  that 
makes  it  the  more  exasperating.  What  sJiall  I  do  ?  " 

"  Why  are  you  so  quiet,  sweetheart  ?  "  she  said, 
throwing  her  napkin  on  the  table.  "  Come  here 
and  kiss  me  and  say  some  of  those  pretty  things. 
You  Americans  do  have  a  queer  accent.  But  you 
know  how  to  make  love  cleverly.  No  wonder  you 
caught  poor,  foolish  me." 

"  My  wife"  he  thought.  "  Good  God,  what  have 
I  done  ?  It  must  be  a  ghastly  dream."  But  he 
crossed  the  room  and  sat  opposite  her  without  look 
ing  at  her.  "  I'm  not  very  fit  this  morning,"  he  said. 

"  I  thought  you  weren't."  Her  spell-casting 
voice  was  in  the  proper  stage-tone  for  sympathy. 
"  I  saw  that  you  didn't  eat." 

"  Eat !  "  He  shuddered  and  closed  his  eyes  to 
prevent  her  seeing  the  sullen  fury  which  blazed 
there.  He  was  instantly  ashamed  of  himself. 
Only — if  she  zvould  avoid  reminding  him  of  the 
chops  and  potato  disappearing  behind  that  gleam 
ing  screen  of  ivory.  He  was  sitting  on  a  little  sofa. 
She  sat  beside  him  and  drew  his  head  down  upon 
her  shoulder.  She  let  her  long,  cool  fingers  slide 
slowly  back  and  forth  across  his  forehead. 

"  I  do  love  you."  There  was  a  ring  of  reality  in 
her  tone  beneath  the  staginess.  "  We  are  going  to 
be  very,  very  happy.  You  are  so  different  from 


174    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

Englishmen.  And  I'm  afraid  you'll  weary  of  your 
stupid  English  wife.  I'm  not  a  bit  clever,  you 
know,  like  the  American  women." 

He  was  unequal  to  a  hypocritical  protest  in 
words,  so  he  patted  her  reassuringly  on  the  arm. 
He  was  less  depressed  now  that  she  had  stopped 
eating  and  was  at  her  best.  He  rose  and  with 
ashamed  self-reproach  kissed  her  hair.  "  I  shall 
try  to  make  you  not  repent  your  bargain,"  he  said, 
with  intent  to  conceal  the  deeper  meaning  of  his 
remark.  "  But  I  must  send  off  some  telegrams. 
Then  we'll  go  for  a  drive.  I  need  the  air." 

He  liked  her  still  better  as  she  came  down  in  a 
becoming  costume  ;  he  particularly  liked  the  agita 
tion  her  appearance  created  in  the  lounging  rooms. 
They  got  through  the  day  well,  and  after  a  dinner 
with  two  interesting  men — a  dinner  at  which  he 
drank  far  more  than  usual — he  felt  temporarily 
reconciled  to  his  fate. 

But  at  the  end  of  a  week,  in  which  he  had  so 
managed  it  that  they  were  alone  as  little  as  possible 
he  had  not  one  illusion  left.  He  did  not  love  her. 
She  did  not  attract  him.  She  was  tiresome  through 
and  through.  Instead  of  giving  life  a  new  mean 
ing  and  him  a  new  impetus,  she  was  an  added  bur 
den,  another  source  of  irritation.  He  admitted  to 
himself  that  he  had  been  tricked  by  his  senses,  as  a 
iboy  of  twenty  might  have  been.  He  felt  like  a 
:  professional  detective  who  has  yielded  to  a  familiar 
*  swindling  game. 

She  had  grown  swiftly  fonder  of  him,  won  by  his 


REAL  TRAGEDY  OF  LIFE.    175 

mental  superiority,  by  his  gentleness  exaggerated 
in  his  anxiety  not  basely  to  make  her  suffer  for  his 
folly.  "  He's  a  real  gentleman,"  she  thought. 
"  His  manners  are  not  pretence.  I've  done  much 
better  than  I  fancied."  And  she  began  further  to 
try  his  nerves  by  a  dog-like  obedience.  She  would 
not  put  on  a  dress  without  first  consulting  him. 
She  had  no  will  but  his  in  any  way — except  one. 
She  insisted  upon  ordering  her  own  meals.  There 
she  did  not  care  what  he  thought. 

Once  they  were  back  in  London,  his  chain  became 
invisible  and  galled  him  only  in  imagination.  She 
had  an  exacting  profession,  and  so  had  he.  When 
they  were  together,  they  would  talk  about  her  work,, 
and,  as  he  was  interested  in  it  and  intelligent  about 
it  and  she  docile  and  receptive,  he  was  content. 
While  she  was  of  no  direct  use  to  him,  he  found 
that  she  was  of  great  indirect  use.  He  worked  more 
steadily,  more  ambitiously.  The  idea  woman,  which 
•had  always  been  distracting  and  time- wasting,  ceased 
to  have  any  part  in  his  life. 

He  turned  his  attention  to  play-writing  and  play- 
carpentry.  He  became  a  connoisseur  of  food  and 
drink,  a  dabbler  in  old  furniture  and  tapestries. 
He  did  not  regret  the  event  of  his  first  venture  in 
marriage  and  only  venture  in  love.  "  As  it  is,  it's 
a  perfect  gem,"  he  finally  came  to  sum  the  matter 
up,  "  a  completed  work  of  art.  If  I'd  had  my  way, 
still  it  must  have  ended  some  time,  and  not  so 
artistically  or  so  comfortably."  When  he  reflected 
thus,  his  waist-line  was  slowly  going. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

EMILY  REFUSES  CONSOLATION. 


f*~        ""^HE    Waylands   took   a   small   house    at 
Neuilly    for   the    summer,   and    Emily 
spent  a  great   deal  of  time  there.     She 
•  found  Theresa  less  lively  but  also  less  jar 

ring  than  in  their  boarding-house  days. 
Neither  ever  spoke  of  those  days,  or  of  Demorest 
and  Marlowe — Theresa,  because  she  had  no  wish  to 
recall  that  she  had  been  other  than  the  fashionable 
and  preeminently  respectable  personage  she  had 
rapidly  developed  into  ;  Emily,  because  her  heart 
was  still  sore,  and  the  place  where  Marlowe  had  been 
was  still  an  uncomfortable  and  at  times  an  aching 
void. 

In  midsummer  came  the  third  member  of  the 
Wayland  family — Edgar.  Like  his  father,  he  had 
changed,  had  developed  into  a  type  of  the  respect 
able  radically  different  from  anything  of  which  she 
had  thought  him  capable.  A  cleaner  mind  now 
looked  from  his  commonplace  face,  and  he  watched 
with  approving  interest  the  pleasing,  if  monotonous, 
spectacle  of  his  father's  domestic  solidity.  On  the 
very  day  on  which  Emily  received  her  copy  of  the 
decree  of  the  Petersville  court,  he  took  her  out  to 
dinner. 


EMILY'S    REFUSAL.          177 

She  had  sat  in  her  little  salon  with  the  three 
documents  in  the  case  before  her — the  two  tangible 
documents,  the  marriage  certificate  and  the  decree 
of  divorce ;  and  the  intangible  but  most  powerful 
document,  her  memory  of  Marlowe  from  first  scene 
to  last.  When  it  was  time  for  her  to  dress,  she 
went  to  her  bedroom  window,  tore  the  two  papers 
into  bits  and  sent  them  fluttering  away  over  the 
housetops  on  the  breeze.  "  The  incident  is  closed/* 
she  said,  with  a  queer  short  laugh  that  was  also  a 
sob.  She  had  Wayland  take  her  to  a  little  restau 
rant  in  the  Rue  Marivaux,  her  and  Marlowe's  favour 
ite  dining  place — a  small  room,  with  tasteful  dark 
furnishings  and  rose-coloured  lights  that  made  it 
somewhat  brighter  than  clear  twilight. 

As  they  sat  there,  with  the  orchestra  sending 
down  from  a  plant-screened  alcove  high  in  the  wall 
the  softest  and  gentlest  intimations  of  melody, 
Emily  deliberately  gave  herself  up  to  the  mood  that 
had  been  growing  all  the  afternoon. 

Edgar  knew  her  well  enough  to  leave  her  to  her 
thoughts  through  the  long  wait  and  into  the  second 
course.  Then  he  remonstrated.  "  You're  not  drink 
ing.  You're  not  eating.  You're  not  listening — I've 
asked  you  a  question  twice." 

"  Yes,  I  was  listening,"  replied  Emily — "  listening 
to  a  voice  I  don't  like  to  hear,  yet  wouldn't  silence 
if  I  could — the  voice  of  experience." 

"  Well — you  look  as  if  you'd  had  a  lot  of  experi 
ence — I  was  going  to  say,  you  look  sadder,  but  it 
isn't  that.  And — you're  more  beautiful  than  ever, 


178    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

Emily.  You  always  did  have  remarkable  eyes,  and 
now  they're — simply  wonderful  and  mysterious." 

Emily  laughed.  "  Oh,  they're  hiding  such  secrets 
— such  secrets !  " 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  you  have  been  through  a  lot. 
You  talk  more  like  a  married  woman  than  a  young 
girl.  But  of  course  you  don't  know  life  as  a  man 
knows  it.  No  nice  woman  can." 

"  Can  a  nice  man  ?  " 

"  Oh,  there  aren't  any  nice  men.  At  least  you'd 
hate  a  nice  man.  I  think  a  fellow  ought  to  be  ex 
perienced,  ought  to  go  around  and  learn  what's  what, 
and  then  he  ought  to  settle  down.  Don't  you?" 

"I'm  not  sure.  I'm  afraid  a  good  many  of  that 
kind  of  fellows  are  no  more  attractive  than  the  '  nice  ' 
men.  Still,  it's  surprising  how  little  of  you  men's, 
badness  gets  beyond  the  surface,  You  come  in  and 
hold  up  your  dirty  hands  and  faces  for  us  women  to 
wash.  And  we  wash  them,  and  you  are  shiny  and 
clean  and  all  ready  to  be  husbands  and  fathers.  I 
think  I've  seen  signs  of  late  that  little  Edgar  Way- 
land  wishes  to  have  his  hands  and  face  washed." 

The  red  wine  at  this  restaurant  in  the  Rue  Man- 
vaux  is  mild  and  smooth,  but  full  of  sentiment  and 
courage.  Edgar  had  made  up  for  Emily's  neglect 
of  it,  and  it  enabled  him  to  advance  boldly  to  the 
settlement  of  a  matter  which  he  had  long  had  in 
mind,  as  Emily  would  have  seen,  had  she  not  been 
so  intent  upon  her  own  affairs. 

"Yes — I  do  want  my  hands  and  face  washed,"  he 
said  nervously,  turning  his  glass  by  its  stem  round 


EMILY'S    REFUSAL.          179 

and  round  upon  the  table.  "  And  I  want  you  to  do 
it,  Emmy." 

Emily  was  grateful  to  him  for  proposing  to  her 
just  then.  And  her  courage  was  so  impaired  by 
her  depression  that  she  could  not  summarily  reject 
a  chance  to  settle  herself  for  life  in  the  way  that  is 
usually  called  "  well."  "  Haven't  I  been  making  a 
mistake?"  she  had  been  saying  to  herself  all  that 
day — and  in  vaguer  form  on  many  preceding  days. 
"  Is  the  game  worth  the  struggle  ?  Freedom  and 
independence  haven't  brought  me  happiness. 
Wasn't  George  right,  after  all  ?  Why  should  I  ex 
pect  so  much  in  a  man,  expect  so  much  from  life  ?  " 
It  seemed  to  her  at  the  moment  that  she  had  better 
have  stopped  thinking,  had  better  have  cast  aside 
her  ideals  of  self-respect  and  pride,  and  have  sunk 
with  Marlowe.  "  And  Edgar  would  let  me  alone. 
Why  not  marry  him  ? 

She  evaded  his  proposal  by  teasing  him  about  his 
flight  from  her  two  years  before — "  Only  two 
years,"  she  thought.  "  How  full  and  swift  life  is,  if 
one  keeps  in  midstream." 

"  Don't  talk  about  that,  Emmy,  please,"  begged 
Edgar  humbly.  "  I  don't  need  any  reminder  that 
I  once  had  a  chance  and  threw  it  away." 

"  But  you  didn't  have  a  chance,"  replied  Emily. 

"  No,  I  suppose  not.  I  suppose  you  wouldn't 
have  had  me,  if  it  had  come  to  the  point." 

"  I  don't  mean  that.  I'd  have  had  you,  but  you 
wouldn't,  couldn't,  have  had  me.  The  I  of  those 
days  and  the  I  of  to-day  aren't  at  all  the  same  per- 


i8o     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

son.  If  I'd  married  you  then,  there  would  have 
been  one  kind  of  a  me.  As  it  is,  there  is  a  different 
kind  of  a  me,  as  different  as — as  the  limits  of  life 
permit." 

"  What  has  done  it— love  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Chiefly  freedom.  Freedom  !  "  Her  sensitive 
face  was  suddenly  all  in  a  glow. 

"  I  know  I'm  not  up  to  you,  Emily,"  he  said. 
"  But- 

"  Let's  not  talk  about  it,  Edgar.  Why  spoil  our 
evening?" 

Theresa  came  the  next  afternoon  and  took  her 
for  a  drive.  "  Has  Edgar  been  proposing  to  you  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  I  think  he's  feeling  more  or  less  sentimental," 
Emily  replied,  not  liking  the  intimate  question. 

"  Now,  don't  think  I'm  meddling.  Edgar  told 
me,  and  has  been  talking  about  you  all  morning. 
He  wished  me  to  help  him." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  Marry  him,  Emily.  He'd  make  a  model  hus 
band.  He's  not  very  mean  about  money,  and  he's 
fond  of  home  and  children.  I'd  like  it  on  my  own 
account,  of  course.  It  would  be  just  the  thing  in 
every  way." 

"  But  then  there's  my  work,  my  independence,  my 
freedom." 

"  Do  be  sensible.  You  can  work  as  hard  as  ever 
you  like,  even  if  you  are  married.  And  you'd  be 
freer  than  now  and  would  have  a  lots  better  time, 
no  matter  what  your  idea  of  a  good  time  is." 


EMILY'S    REFUSAL.          181 

"  But  I  don't  love  him.  I'm  not  sure  that  I  even 
like  him." 

"  So  much  the  better.     Then  you'll  be  agreeably 

disappointed.     If  you  expect  nothing  or  worse,  you 

I  get  the  right  kind  of  a  surprise  ;  whereas,  when  a 

\  woman  loves  a  man,  she  idealises  him  and  is  sure  to 

get  the  wrong  kind  of  a  surprise." 

"  You  can't  possibly  know  how  wise  what  you've 
just  said  is,  Theresa  Dunham,"  said  Emily.  "  But 
there  is  one  thing  wiser — and  that  is,  not  to  marry, 
not  to  risk.  I'm  able  to  make  my  living.  My  ex 
travagant  tastes  are  under  control.  And  I'm  con 
tent — except  in  ways  in  which  nothing  he  can  give 
me  could  help." 

Theresa  was  irritated  that  Emily's  "  queer  id  ens  " 
were  a  force  in  her  life,  not  a  mere  mask  for  disap 
pointment  at  not  having  been  able  to  marry  well. 
And  Emily  could  not  discuss  the  situation  with  her. 
Theresa  might  admit  that  it  was  barely  possible  for 
a  woman  to  refuse  to  marry  except  for  love.  But 
a  woman  disputing  the  necessity  of  marriage  for 
any  and  all  women,  if  they  were  not  to  make  a  dis 
graceful  failure  of  life — Emily  could  see  Theresa 
pooh-poohing  the  idea  that  such  a  creature  really 
existed  among  the  sane.  Further,  if  Emily 
1  explained  her  point  of  view,  she  would  be  by  impli 
cation  assailing  Theresa  for  her  marriage. 

"  I'm  sure,"  Theresa  went  on,  "  that  Edgar's 
father  would  be  satisfied.  If  he  didn't  know  you  he 
wouldn't  like  it.  He  has  such  strict  ideas  on  the 
subject  of  women.  He  thinks  a  woman's  mission 


182     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

is  to  be  a  wife  and  mother.  He  says  nature  plainly 
intended  woman  to  have  motherhood  as  her  mis 
sion." 

"  Not  any  more,  I  should  say,  than  she  intended 
man  to  have  fatherhood  as  his  mission." 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,  he  thinks  so,  and  it  gives 
him  something  to  talk  about.  He  thinks  a  woman 
who  is  not  at  least  a  wife  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
herself." 

"  But  if  no  man  will  have  her  ?  " 

"  Then  she  ought  to  sit  out  of  sight,  where  she  will 
offend  as  little  as  possible." 

"  But  if  she  has  to  make  a  living  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she  can  do  something  quiet  and  respectable, 
like  sewing  or  housework." 

"  But  why  shouldn't  she  work  at  whatever  will 
produce  the  best  living?" 

"_She  ought  to  be  careful  not  to  be  unwomanly." 

"  Womanliness,  as  you  call  it,  won't  bring  in  bread 
or  clothes  or  pay  rent,"  said  Emily.  "  And  I  can't 
quite  see  why  it  should  be  womanly  to  make  a  poor 
living  at  drudgery  and  unwomanly  to  make  a  good 
living  at  agreeable  work." 

"  Oh,  well,  you  know,  Emmy,  that  nature  never 
intended  women  to  work." 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  nature  intended. 
Sometimes  I've  an  idea  she's  like  a  painter  who, 
when  they  asked  him  what  his  canvas  was  going  to 
be,  said,  '  Oh,  as  it  may  happen.'  But  whatever 
nature's  intentions,  women  do  work.  I'm  not 
thinking  about  an  unimportant  little  class  of  women 


EMILY'S    REFUSAL.          183 

who  spend  their  time  in  dressing  and  simpering  at 
one  another.  I'm  thinking  of  women — the  race  of 
women.  They  work  as  the  men  work.  They  bear 
more  than  half  the  burden.  They  work  side  by 
side  with  the  men — in  the  shops  and  offices  and 
schoolrooms,  on  the  farms  and  in  the  homes.  They 
toil  as  hard  and  as  intelligently  and  as  usefully  as 
the  men  ;  and,  if  they're  married,  they  usually  make 
a  bare  living.  The  average  husband  thinks  he's 
doing  his  wife  a  favour  by  letting  her  live  with  him. 
And  he  is  furious  if  she  asks  what  he's  doing  with 
their  joint  earnings." 

"  You  put  it  well,"  said  Theresa.  "  You  ought 
to  say  that  to  Percival.  I  suppose  he  could  answer 
you." 

"  No  doubt  I'm  boring  you,"  said  Emily.  "  But 
it  makes  me  indignant  for  women  to  accept  men's 
absurd  ideas  on  the  subject  of  themselves — to  think 
that  they've  got  to  submit  and  play  the  hypocrite 
in  order  to  fit  men's  silly  so-called  ideals  of  them. 
And  the  worst  of  it  is " 

Emily  stopped  and  when  she  began  again,  talked 
of  the  faces  and  clothes  in  the  passing  carriages. 
She  had  intended  to  go  on  to  denounce  herself  for 
weakness  in  being  unable  to  follow  reason  and  alto 
gether  shake  off  ideas  which  she  regarded  as  false 
and  foolish  and  discreditable.  "  As  if,"  she  thought 
"any  toil  in  making  my  own  living  could  possibly 
equal  the  misery  of  being  tied  to  a  commonplace 
fellow  like  Edgar,  with  my  life  one  long  denial  of 
all  that  I  believe  honest  and  true.  I  his  wife,  the 


184    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

mother  of  his  children,  and  listening  to  his  narrow 
prosings  day  in  and  day  out — it's  impossible  !  " 

She  straightened  herself  and  drew  in  a  long  breath 
of  the  bright  air  of  the  Bois. 

"  Listen  to  me,  Theresa,"  she  said.  "  Suppose 
you  were  walking  along  a  road  alone — not  an 
especially  pleasant  road — a  little  dusty  and,  at 
times  rough — but  still  on  the  whole  not  a  bad 
road.  And  suppose  you  saw  a  clumsy,  heavy  mani 
kin,  dropped  by  some  showman  and  lying  by  the 
wayside.  Would  you  say,  '  I  am  tired.  The  road 
is  rough.  I'll  pick  up  this  manikin  and  strap  it  on 
my  back  to  make  the  journey  lighter? 

"  Whatever  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Theresa. 

"  Why,  I  mean  that  I'm  not  going  to  marry — not 
just  yet— I  think." 


CHAPTER  XX. 

BACHELOR   GIRLS. 

IN  September  Emily,  convinced  that  she  could 
not  afford  to  stay  away  from  her  own  country 
longer,  got  herself  transferred  to  the  New 
York  staff  and  crossed  with   the   Waylands. 
In  the  crowd   on   the  White  Star  pier  she 
saw  Joan,  now  a  successful  playright  or  "  plagiarist  " 
as  she  called  herself,  because  the  most  of  her  work 
was  translating  and  adapting.     And  presently  Joan 
and  she  were  journeying  in   a   four-wheeler   piled 
high  with  trunks,  toward  the  San  Remo  where  Joan 
was  living. 

"  Made  in  Paris,"  said  Joan,  her  arm  about  Emily 
and  her  eyes  delighting  in  Emily's  stylish  French 
travelling  costume.  "  You  even  speak  with  a  Paris 
accent.  How  you  have  changed  !  " 

"  But  not  so  much  as  you.  You  are  not  so  thin. 
And  you've  lost  that  stern,  anxious  expression. 
And  you  have  the  air — what  is  it  ? — the  air  that 
comes  to  people  when  their  merits  have  been  pub 
licly  admitted." 

Joan  did  indeed  look  a  person  who  is  in  the 
habit  of  being  taken  into  account.  She  had  always 
been  good  looking,  if  somewhat  severe  and  business 
like.  Now  she  was  handsome.  She  was  not  of  the 


i86    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

type  of  woman  with  whom  a  man  falls  ardently  in 
love — she  showed  too  plainly  that  she  dealt  with 
all  the  facts  of  life  on  a  purely  intellectual  basis. 

"  I've  been  expecting  news  that  you  were  marry 
ing,"  said  Emily. 

"  I  ?  "  Joan  smiled  cynically.  "  I  feel  as  you  do 
about  marriage — except " 

She  paused  and  reddened  as  Emily  began  to 
laugh.  "No — not  that,"  she  went  on.  "I'm  not 
the  least  in  love.  But  I've  made  up  my  mind  to 
marry  the  first  intelligent,  endurable,  self-supporting 
man  that  asks  me.  I'm  thirty-two  years  old  and — 
I  want  children." 

"  Children  !     You— children  ?  " 

"  Yes — I.  I've  changed  my  mind  now  that  I  can 
afford  to  think  of  such  things.  I  like  them  for 
themselves  and — they're  the  only  hope  one  has  of 
getting  a  real  object  in  life.  Working  for  oneself  is 
hollow.  I  once  thought  I'd  be  happy  if  I  got 
where  I  am  now — mistress  of  my  time  and  sure  of 
an  income.  But  I  find  that  I  can't  hope  to  be 
contented  going  on  alone.  And  that  means  chil 
dren." 

"  You  don't  know  how  you  surprise  me."  Emily 
looked  thoughtful  rather  than  surprised.  "  You 
set  me  to  thinking  along  a  new  line.  I  wonder  if  I 
shall  ever  feel  that  way  ?  " 

"  Why,  of  course.  Old  age  without  ties  in  the 
new  generation  is  a  dismal  farce  for  woman  or  man. 
We  human  beings  live  looking  to  the  future  if  we 
live  at  all.  And  unless  we  have  children,  we  are 


BACHELOR    GIRLS.  187 

certain  to  be  alone  and  facing  the  past  in  old  age. 
You'll  change  your  mind,  as  I  have.  Some  day 
you'll  begin  to  feel  the  longing  for  children.  It 
may  be  irrational,  but  it'll  be  irresistible." 

"  Well,  I  think  I'll  wait  on  your  experiment. 
How  I  love  the  trolley  cars  and  the  tall  buildings — 
they  make  one  feel  what  a  strong,  bold  race  we  are, 
don't  they?  And  I'm  simply  wild  to  get  to  the 
office." 

Emily  was  assigned  to  the  staff  of  the  Sunday 
supplements — to  read  papers  and  magazines,  for 
eign  and  domestic,  and  suggest  and  occasionally  ex 
ecute  features.  She  liked  the  work  and  it  left  her 
evenings  free  ;  but  it  was  sedentary.  This  she  cor 
rected  by  walking  the  three  miles  from  the  office 
to  her  flat  and  by  swimming  at  a  school  in  Forty- 
fourth  street  three  times  a  week. 

She  gave  much  time  and  thought  to  her  appear 
ance  because  she  was  proud  of  her  looks,  because 
they  were  part  of  her  capital,  and  because  she  knew 
that  only  by  the  greatest  care  could  she  keep  her 
youth.  Joan's  interest  in  personal  appearance,  so 
far  as  she  herself  was  concerned,  ended  with  seeing 
to  cleanliness  and  to  clothing  near  enough  to  the 
fashion  to  make  her  a  well-dressed  woman.  It  did 
not  disturb  her  that  her  hair  was  slightly  thinner 
than  it  used  to  be,  or  that  there  were  a  few  small 
wrinkles  at  the  corners  of  her  eyes.  But  she  was 
not  contemptuous  of  Emily's  far-sighted  precau 
tions.  On  the  contrary,  she  looked  upon  them  as 
sensible  and  would  have  been  worried  by  any  sign 


i88    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

of  relaxing  vigilance.  She  delighted  in  Emily's 
gowns  and  in  the  multitude  of  trifles — collarettes, 
pins  of  different  styles,  stockings  of  striking  and  even 
startling  patterns,  shoes  and  boots  of  many  kinds, 
ribbons,  gloves,  etc.  etc. — wherewith  she  made  her 
studied  simplicity  of  dress  perfect. 

"  It's  wonderful,"  she  said,  as  she  watched  Emily 
unpack.  "  I  don't  see  how  you  ever  accumulated 
so  much." 

"  Instinct  probably,"  replied  Emily.  "  I  make 
it  a  rule  never  to  buy  anything  I  don't  need, 
and  never  to  need  anything  I  don't  have  money  to 
buy." 

They  took  a  flat  in  Central  Park  West,  near 
Sixty-sixth  street,  and  Joan  insisted  upon  paying 
two-thirds  of  the  expenses.  Emily  yielded,  because 
Joan's  arguments  were  unanswerable — she  did  use 
the  flat  more,  as  she  not  only  worked  there  and  re- 
ceived  business  callers,  but  also  did  much  entertain 
ing  ;  and  she  could  well  afford  to  bear  the  larger 
part  of  the  expense,  as  her  income  was  about  eight 
thousand  a  year,  and  Emily  had  only  three  thou 
sand.  Joan  wished  to  draw  Emily  into  play- 
writing,  but  soon  gave  it  up.  She  had  to  admit  to 
herself  that  Emily  was  right  in  thinking  she  had 
not  the  necessary  imagination — that  her  mind  was 
appreciative  rather  than  constructive. 

"  Don't  think  I'm  so  dreadfully  depressed  over 
it,"  Emily  went  on.  "  It  is  painful  to  have  limita 
tions  as  narrow  as  mine,  when  one  appreciates  as 
keenly  as  I  do.  But  we  can't  all  have  genius 


BACHELOR    GIRLS.  189 

or  great  talent.  Besides,  the  highest  pleasures 
don't  come  through  great  achievement  or  great 
ability." 

"  Indeed,  they  do  not." 

Emily's  eyes  danced,  and  Joan  grew  red  and 
smiled  foolishly.  The  meaning  back  of  it  was  Pro 
fessor  Reed  of  Columbia.  He  had  been  calling  on 
Joan  of  late  frequently,  and  with  significant  regu 
larity.  He  was  short  and  sallow,  with  a  narrow, 
student's  face,  and  brown  eyes,  that  seemed  large 
and  dreamy  through  his  glasses,  as  eyes  behind 
glasses  usually  do.  He  was  stiff  in  manner,  because 
he  had  had  little  acquaintance  with  women.  He 
was  in  love  with  Joan  in  a  solemn,  old-fashioned 
way.  He  was  so  shy  and  respectful  that  if  Emily 
had  not  been  most  considerate  of  other  people's 
privacy,  she  would  have  teased  Joan  by  asking  her 
when  she  was  going  to  propose  to  him  that  he  pro 
pose  to  her. 

He  was  rigid  in  his  ideas  of  what  constituted 
propriety  for  himself,  but  not  in  the  least  disposed 
to  insist  upon  his  standards  in  others.  He  felt  that 
in  wandering  so  near  to  Bohemia  as  Joan  and 
Emily  he  was  trenching  upon  the  extreme  of  per 
missible  self-indulgence.  If  he  had  been  able  to 
suspect  Joan  of  "  a  past,"  he  would  probably  have 
been  secretly  delighted.  He  did  not  believe  that 
she  had,  when  he  got  beyond  the  surface  of  her  life 
— the  atmosphere  of  the  playhouse  and  the  newspa 
per  office — and  saw  how  matter-of-fact  everything 
was.  But  he  still  clung  to  vague  imaginings  of  un- 


190    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

conventionality,  so  alluring  to  those  who  are  conven 
tional  in  thought  and  action. 

Emily's  one  objection  to  him  was  that  he  some 
times  tried  to  be  witty  or  humorous.  Then  he 
became  hysterical  and  not  far  from  silly.  But  as 
she  knew  him  better  she  forgave  this.  Had  she 
disliked  him  she  would  have  been  able  to  see  noth 
ing  else. 

"  Do  you  admire  strength  in  a  man  ?  "  she  once 
asked  Joan. 

"Yes — I  suppose  so.  I  like  him  to  be — well,  a 
man." 

"  I  like  a  man  to  be  distinctly  masculine — strong, 
mentally  and  physically.  I  don't  like  him  to  domi 
neer,  but  I  like  to  feel  that  he  would  domineer  me 
if  he  dared — and  could  domineer  every  one  except 
me." 

"  No,  I  don't  like  that.  I  have  my  own  ideas  of 
what  I  wish  to  do.  And  I  wish  the  man  who  is 
anything  to  me  to  be  willing  to  help  me  to  do 
them." 

"  You  want  a  man-servant,  then  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed.  But  I  don't  want  a  master."  Joan 
shut  her  lips  together,  and  a  stern,  pained  ex 
pression  came  into  her  face.  Emily  saw  that  her 
book  of  memory  had  flung  open  at  an  unpleasant 
page.  "  No,"  she  continued  in  a  resolute  tone,  "  I 
want  no  master.  My  centre  of  gravity  must  remain 
within  myself." 

After  that  conversation  Emily  understood  why 
Joan  liked  her  intelligent,  adoring,  timid  professor. 


BACHELOR    GIRLS.  191 

•"  Joan  will  make  him  make  her  happy,"  she  said  to 
herself,  amused  at,  yet  admiring,  Joan's  practical, 
sensible  planning. 

****** 

Soon  after  her  return,  the  Sunday  editor  called 
her  into  his  office — her  desk  was  across  the  room, 
immediately  opposite  his  door. 

•'  We  want  a  series  of  articles  on  what  is  doing 
in  New  York  for  the  poor — especially  the  foreign 
poor  of  the  slums.  Now,  here's  the  address  of  a 
man  who  can  tell  you  about  his  own  work  and  also 
what  others  are  doing — where  to  send  in  order  to 
see  how  it's  done,  whom  it's  done  for,  and  so  on." 

Emily  took  the  slip.  It  read  "  Dr.  Stanhope, — 
Grand  Street."  She  set  out  at  once,  left  the  Bow 
ery  car  at  Grand  street  and  walked  east  through  its 
crowded  dinginess.  She  passed  the  great  towering 

Church  of  the  Redeemer  at  the  corner  of 

street.  The  next  house  was  the  one  she  was  seek 
ing.  A  maid  answered  the  door.  A  sickly  looking 
curate,  his  shovel-hat  standing  out  ludicrously  over 
a  pair  of  thin,  projecting  ears,  passed  her  with  a 
"professional"  smile  that  made  his  tiny,  dimpled 
chin  look  its  weakest.  The  maid  took  her  card 
and  presently  returned  to  conduct  her  through  sev 
eral  handsome  rooms,  up  heavily  carpeted  stairs, 
under  an  arch,  into  a  connecting  house  that  was 
furnished  with  cold  and  cheap  simplicity.  The 
maid  pushed  open  a  door  and  Emily  entered  a 
large,  high-ceilinged  library,  that  looked  as  if  were 
the  workshop  of  a  toiler  of  ascetic  tastes.  At  the 


192     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

farther  end  at  a  table-desk  sat  a  man,  writing.  His 
back  was  toward  her — a  big  back,  a  long,  broad, 
powerful  back.  He  was  seated  upon  a  strong,  re 
volving  office-chair,  yet  it  seemed  too  small  and  too 
feeble  for  him. 

"  Well,  my  good  girl,  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 
he  called  over  his  shoulder,  without  ceasing  to 
write. 

Emily  started.  She  recognised  the  voice,  then 
the  head,  neck,  shoulders,  back.  It  was  the  man 
she  had  "  confessed "  in  Paris.  She  was  so  as 
tonished  that  she  could  make  no  reply,  and  hardly 
noted  the  abstracted  patronising  tone,  the  super- 
cilious  words  and  the  uncourteous  manner.  He 
dropped  his  pen,  laid  his  great  hands  on  the  arms 
of  his  chair  and  swung  himself  round.  His  ex 
pression  changed  so  swiftly  and  so  tragically  that 
Emily  forgot  her  own  surprise  and  with  difficulty 
restrained  her  amusement. 

He  leaped  from  his  chair  and  strode  toward  her — 
bore  down  upon  her.  His  brilliant,  dark  eyes  ex 
pressed  amazement,  doubt  of  his  sanity.  There 
was  a  deep  flush  in  his  pallid  skin  just  beneath  the 
surface. 

"  I  have  come  to  ask  " — began  Emily. 

"  Is  it  you  ?  "  he  said,  eagerly.     "  Is  it  you  ?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon."  Emily's  face  showed  no 
recognition  and  she  stood  before  him,  formal  and 
business-like. 

"Don't  you  remember  me?"  He  made  an  im 
patient  gesture,  as  if  to  sweep  aside  a  barrier  some- 


BACHELOR    GIRLS.  193 

one  had  thrust  in  front  of  him.  "  Did  I  not  meet 
you  in  Paris  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think — I'm  sure — that  I  have  not  had 
the  pleasure  of  meeting  you.  The  Democrat  sent 
me  here  to  see  Doctor  Stanhope — " 

Again  he  made  the  sweeping  gesture  with  his 
powerful  arm.  "  I  am  Doctor  Stanhope,"  he  said 
impatiently.  Then  with  earnest  directness  :  "  Your 
manner  is  an  evasion.  It  is  useless,  unlike — unex 
pected  in  the  sort  of  woman  you — you  look." 

"You  cannot  ask  me  to  be  bound  by  your  con 
clusions  or  wishes  when  they  do  not  agree  with  my 
own,'*  said  Emily,  her  tone  and  look  taking  the  edge 
from  her  words,  as  she  did  not  wish  to  offend  him. 

"  As  you  will."  He  made  a  gesture  of  resigna 
tion  and  bowed  toward  a  chair  at  the  corner  of  his 
desk.  When  they  were  seated,  he  said,  "  I  am  at 
your  service,  Miss  Bromfield." 

He  gave  her  the  information  she  was  seeking, 
suggested  the  phases  of  poverty  and  relief  of  pov 
erty  that  would  be  best  for  description  and  illustra 
tion.  He  called  in  his  secretary  and  dictated  notes 
of  instruction  to  several  men  who  could  help  her. 
He  requested  them  to  "give  Miss  Bromfield  all 
possible  facilities,  as  an  especial  favour  to  me.  I  am 
deeply  interested  in  the  articles  she  is  preparing  for 
the  Democrat" 

When  the  secretary  withdrew  to  write  out  the 
letters,  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  looked  at 
her  appealingly.  "  Shall  we  be  friends  ? "  he 
asked. 


194    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

While  Emily  had  been  sitting  there,  so  near  him, 
hearing  his  clear,  resolute  voice,  noting  his  fascinat 
ing  mannerisms  of  strength,  gentleness  and  sim 
plicity,  she  felt  again  the  charm  of  power  and  per 
suasion  that  had  conquered  her  when  first  she  saw 
him.  "  He  makes  me  feel  that  he  is  important,  and 
at  the  same  time  that  I  am  important  in  his  eyes," 
she  thought,  analysing  her  vanity  as  she  yielded  to 
it. 

"  Friends?  "  she  said  aloud  with  a  smile.  "  That 
means  better  opportunities  for  petty  treachery,  and 
the  chance  to  assassinate  in  a  crisis.  It's  a  serious 
matter — friendship,  don't  you  think  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  humour  in  his  eyes.  "  And 
again  it  may  mean  an  offensive  and  defensive  alli 
ance  against  the  world." 

"  In  dreams,"  she  answered,  "  but  not  in  women's 
dreams  of  men  or  in  men's  dreams  of  women." 

Just  then  a  voice  called  from  the  hall,  "  Arthur !  " 
— a  shrill,  shrewish  voice  with  a  note  of  habitual 
ill-temper  in  it,  yet  a  ladylike  voice. 

There  was  a  rustling  of  skirts  and  into  the  room 
hurried  a  small,  fair  woman,  thin,  and  nervous  in 
face,  thin  and  nervous  in  body,  with  a  sudden  bulge 
of  breadth  and  stoutness  at  the  hips.  She  was  in  a 
tailor  gown,  expensive  and  unbecoming.  Her  hair 
was  light  brown,  tightly  drawn  up,  with  a  small 
knot  at  the  crown  of  her  head.  There  was  a  wide, 
bald  expanse  behind  each  ear.  She  had  cold-blue, 
sensual  eyes,  the  iris  looking  as  if  it  were  a  thin 
button  pasted  to  the  ball.  Yet  she  was  not  un- 


BACHELOR    GIRLS.  195 

attractive,  making  up  in  fire  what  she  lacked  in 
beauty. 

"As  you  see,  I  am  engaged,"  Stanhope  said, 
tranquilly. 

"  Pardon  me  for  interrupting."  There  was  a 
covert  sting  of  sarcasm  in  her  voice.  "  But  I  must 
see  you." 

He  rose.  "You'll  excuse  me  a  moment?"  he 
said  to  Emily. 

He  followed  his  wife  into  the  hall  and  soon  re 
turned  to  his  desk.  "  Everything  begins  badly 
with  me,"  he  resumed  abruptly.  "  Since  I  was  a 
boy  at  school,  the  butt  of  the  other  boys  because  I 
was  clumsy  and  supersensitive,  it  has  been  one  long 
fight."  His  tone  was  matter-of-fact,  but  something 
it  suggested  rather  than  uttered  made  Emily  feel 
as  if  tears  were  welling  up  toward  her  eyes.  "  But," 
he  continued,  "  I  go  straight  on.  I  sometimes 
stumble,  sometimes  crawl,  but  always  straight  on." 

"  What  a  simple,  direct  man  he  is,"  she  thought, 
"  and  how  strong !  In  another  that  would  have 
seemed  a  boast.  From  him  it  seems  the  literal 
truth." 

"  What  are  you  thinking?  "  he  interrupted. 

"Just  then?  I  was  beginning  to  think  how  pe 
culiar  you  are,  and  how — how — "  her  eyes  danced — 
"  indiscreet." 

"  Because  of  what  I  did  and  said  in  Paris  ?  Be 
cause  of  what  I  am  saying  to  you  now?"  He 
looked  at  her  friendlily.  "  Oh,  no — there  you  mis 
take  me.  I  cannot  tell  why  I  feel  as  I  do  toward 


196    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

you.  But  I  know  that  I  must  be  truthful  and 
honest  with  you,  that  you  have  a  right  to  demand 
it  of  me,  as  had  no  one  else  I  ever  knew.  I  must 
let  you  know  me  as  I  am." 

•*  You  seem  delightfully  sure  that  I  wish  to  know." 

"  I  do  not  think  of  that  at  all.  Much  as  I  have 
thought  of  you,  I  have  never  thought  '  what  does 
she  think  of  me  ?  '  Probably  you  dismissed  me 
from  your  mind  when  you  turned  away  from  me  in 
Paris.  Probably  you  will  again  forget  me  when  you 
have  written  your  article  and  passed  to  other  work. 
But  I  cannot  resist  the  instinct  that  impels  me  on 
to  look  upon  you  as  the  most  important  human 
being  in  the  world  for  me." 

"  I  believe  that  you  are  honest.  I  don't  wish  to 
misunderstand  your  frankness.  I'm  too  impatient 
of  conventions  myself  to  insist  upon  them  in  others 
— that  is,  in  those  who  respect  the  real  barriers  that 
hedge  every  human  being  until  he  or  she  chooses  to 
let  them  down.  But  " — Emily  hesitated  and 
looked  apologetically  at  this  "  giant  with  the  heart 
of  a  boy,"  as  he  seemed  to  her — "  you  ought  not  to 
forget  that  everything  in  your  circumstances  makes 
it  wrong  for  you  to  talk  to  me  thus." 

"It  seems  so,  doesn't  it?"  He  looked  at  her 
gravely.  "  It  looks  as  if  I  were  a  scoundrel.  Yet 
I  don't  feel  in  the  least  as  if  I  were  trying  to  wrong 
you  in  any  way.  You  seem  to  me  far  stronger  than 
I.  I  feel  that  I  am  appealing  to  you  for  strength." 

The  secretary  entered,  laid  the  letters  before  him 
and  went  away.  He  signed  them  mechanically, 


BACHELOR    GIRLS.          197 

folded  them  and  put  them  in  the  addressed  envel. 
opes.  As  she  rose  he  rose  also  and  handed  them  to 
her. 

"  After  I  saw  you  in  Paris,"  he  said,  looking  down 
jat  her  as  she  stood  before  him,  "  I  thought  it  all  over. 
,1  asked  myself  whether  I  had  been  deceived  by  your 
beauty,  or  whether  it  was  the  peculiar  circumstances 
of  our  meeting,  of  each  of  us  yielding  to  an  impulse  ; 
or  whether  it  was  my  weariness  of  all  that  I  am 
familiar  with,  my  desire  for  the  unfamiliar,  the  new, 
the  adventurous.  And  it  may  be  all  of  these,  but 
there  is  more  beyond  them  all." 

He  paused,  then  went  on  in  a  voice  which  so 
thrilled  her  that  she  hardly  heard  his  words :  "  Yes, 
a  great  deal  more.  I  wish  something,  some  one, 
some  person  to  believe  in.  It  is  vital  to  me.  I 
doubt  everything  and  everybody — God,  His  crea 
tures,  myself  most  of  all.  And  when  my  eyes  fell 
upon  you  in  Paris,  there  was  that  in  your  face  which 
made  me  believe  in  you.  I  said,  *  She  is  brave,  she 
is  honest,  she  is  strong.  She  could  not  be  petty  or 
false,  or  cruel.'  And — I  do  believe  in  you.  That  is 
all." 

"  If  you  knew,"  she  said,  trying  to  shake  off  the 
spell  of  his  voice  and  his  personality,  "  you  would 
iind  me  a  very  ordinary  kind  of  sinner.  And  then, 
you  would  of  course  proceed  to  denounce  me  as  if 
I  were  a  fraud,  instead  of  the  innocent  cause  of  your 
deliberate  self-deception." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  have  done — what  par 
ticular  courses  you  have  taken  at  life's  university. 


198    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

But  I  am  not  so — so  deceived  in  you  that  I  do  not 
note  and  understand  the  signs  of  experience,  of — 
yes,  of  suffering.  I  know  there  must  be  a  cause 
when  at  your  age  a  woman  can  look  a  man  through 
and  through,  when  she  can  talk  to  him  sexlessly, 
when  she  laughs  rarely  and  smiles  reluctantly." 

"  I  am  hardly  a  tragedy,"  interrupted  Emily. 
"Please  don't  make  me  out  one  of  those  comical 
creatures  who  go  through  life  fancying  themselves 
heroines  of  melodrama." 

"  I  don't.  You  are  supremely  natural  and  sen 
sible.  But — I  neither  know  nor  try  to  guess  nor 
care  how  you  came  to  be  the  woman  you  are.  But 
I  do  know  that  you  are  one  of  those  to  whom  all 
experience  is  a  help  toward  becoming  wiser  and 
stronger  and  better." 

It  seemed  to  her  as  if,  in  spite  of  her  struggles,, 
she  was  being  drawn  toward  him  irresistibly,  toward 
a  fate  which  at  once  fascinated  and  frightened  her. 
"  You  are  dangerously  interesting,"  she  said.  "  But 
I  am  staying  too  long."  And  with  a  few  words  of 
thanks  for  his  assistance  to  her  work,  she  went  away. 

In  the  street  she  rapidly  recovered  herself  and 
her  point  of  view.  "  A  minister ! "  she  thought. 
"  And  a  married  man  !  And  sentimental  and  mysti 
cal  !  "  But  in  defiance  of  self-mockery  and  self-warn 
ings  her  mind  persisted  in  coming  back  to  him,  per 
sisted  in  revolving  ideas  about  him  which  her  judg 
ment  condemned. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

A  "  MARRIED    MAN." 

EMILY    spent   a   week  in   studying   "the 
work  "    of   the   Redeemer  parish — the 
activities  of  its  large  staff  of  "  workers  " 
of     different    grades,    from     ministers 
down     through    deacons,   deaconesses, 
teachers,  nurses,  to  unskilled  helpers.     She  attended 
its  schools — day  and  night ;  its  lectures  ;  its  kinder 
gartens  and  day  nurseries  ;    its  clubs  for  grown  peo 
ple,  for  youths  and  for  children.     She  examined  its 
pawn-shops,    its     employment-bureaus,    its     bath 
houses.     She  was   surprised  by   the  many  ways  in 
which  it  touched  intimately  the  lives  of  that  quarter 
of  a  million  people  of  various  races,  languages  and 
religions,  having  nothing  in  common  except  human 
nature,  poverty,  and  ignorance.     She  was  astonished 
at  the  amount  of  good  accomplished — at  the  actual, 
visible  results. 

She  had  no  particular  interest  in  religion  or  belief 
in  the  value  of  speculations  about  the  matters  on 
which  religion  dogmatises.  Her  father's  casual  but 
effective  teachings,  the  books  she  had  read,  the  talk 
of  the  men  and  of  many  of  the  women  she  had  associ 
ated  with,  the  results  of  her  own  observations  and 
reflections,  had  strongly  entrenched  this  disposition 


200    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

in  prejudice.  Her  adventure  into  the  parish  was 
therefore  the  more  a  revelation.  And  she  found 
also  that  while  everything  was  done  there  in  the 
name  of  religion,  little,  almost  nothing,  was  said 
about  religion.  "  The  work,"  except  in  the  church 
and  the  chapels  at  distinctly  religious  meetings,  was 
wholly  secular.  Here  was  simply  a  great  plant  for 
enlightening  and  cheering  on  those  who  grope  or 
sit  dumb  and  blind. 

At  first  she  was  rather  contemptuous  of  "  the 
workers  "  and  was  repelled  by  certain  cheap  affecta 
tions  of  speech,  thought  and  manner,  common  to 
them  all.  They  were,  the  most  of  them,  it  seemed 
to  her,  poorly  equipped  in  brains  and  narrow  in 
their  views  of  life.  But  when  she  got  beneath  the 
'•  surface,  she  disregarded  externals  in  her  admiration 
for  their  unconscious  self-sacrifice,  their  keen  pleas 
ure  in  helping  others — and  such  "others!" — their 
limitless  patience  with  dirt,  stupidity,  shiftlessness, 
and  mendacity.  She  was  profoundly  moved  by  the 
spectacle  of  these  homely  labourers,  sowing  and  reap 
ing  unweariedly  the  arid  sands  of  the  slums  for  no 
other  reward  than  an  occasional  blade  of  sickly  grass. 
She  was  standing  at  the  window  of  one  of  the 
women's  clubs — the  one  in  Allen  street  near  Grand. 
It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  and  the  crowd  was 
homeward-bound  from  labour.  To  her  it  was  a  for 
bidding-looking  crowd.  The  blight  of  ignorance — 
centuries,  innumerable  centuries  of  ignorance — was 
upon  it.  Crossness,  dulness,  craft,  mental  and 
physical  deformity,  streamed  monotonously  by. 


A    MARRIED    MAN.  201 

"  Depressing,  isn't  it  ?  " 

She  started  and  glanced  around.  Beside  her, 
reading  her  thoughts  in  her  face,  was  Dr.  Stanhope. 
Instead  of  his  baggy,  unclerical  tweed  suit,  he  was 
wearing  the  uniform  of  his  order.  It  sat  strangely 
upon  him,  like  a  livery;  and,  she  thought,  he  hasn't 
in  the  least  the  look  of  the  liveried,  of  one  who  is 
part  of  any  sort  of  organisation.  "  He  looks  as  lone, 
as  '  unorganised,'  as  self-sufficient,  as  a  mountain." 

"  Depressing  ?"  she  said,  shaking  her  head  with 
an  expression  of  distaste.  "It's  worse — it's  hope 
less." 

"  No, — not  hopeless.  And  you  ought  not  to  look 
at  it  with  disgust.  It's  the  soil — the  rotten  loam 
from  which  the  grain  and  the  fruit  and  the  flowers 
spring." 

"  I  don't  think  so.  To  me  it's  simply  a  part  of 
the  great  stagnant,  disease-breeding  marsh  which 
receives  the  sewage  of  society." 

"  I  sha'n't  go  on  with  the  analogy.  But  your 
theory  and  mine  are  in  the  end  the  same.  We  all 
sprang  from  this  ;  and  the  top  is  always  flowering 
and  dropping  back  into  it  to  spring  up  again." 

"  I  see  nothing  but  ignorance  that  cannot  learn. 
It  seems  to  me  nearly  all  the  effort  spent  upon  it 
is  wasted.  If  nature  were  left  alone,  she  would 
drain,  drain,  drain,  until  at  last  she  might  drain  it 
away." 

"  Yours  is  an  unjust  view,  I  think.  I  won't  say 
anything,"  this  with  a  faint  smile,  "  about  the  souls 
that  are  worth  saving.  But  if  we  by  working  here 


202     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

open  the  way  for  a  few,  maybe  a  very  few,  to  rise 
who  would  otherwise  not  have  risen,  we  have  not 
worked  in  vain.  My  chief  interest  is  the  children." 

"  Yes,"  she  admitted,  her  face  lighting  up,  "  there 
is  hope  for  the  children.  You  don't  know  how  it 
has  affected  me  to  see  what  you  and  your  people  are 
doing  for  them.  It's  bound  to  tell.  It  is  telling." 

He  looked  at  her  as  if  she  were  his  queen  and  had 
bestowed  some  honour  upon  him  which  he  had  toiled 
long  to  win.  "  Thank  you,"  he  said.  "  It  means  a 
great  deal  to  me  to  have  you  say  that." 

She  gave  him  a  careless  glance  of  derisive  incredu 
lity. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  he  asked. 

"You  are  amusing,"  she  replied.  "  Your  expres 
sion  of  gratitude  was  overacted.  It  was — was — gro 
tesque." 

He  drew  back  as  if  he  had  received  a  blow.  "  You 
are  cruel,"  he  said. 

"  Because  I  warn  you  that  you  are  overestimating 
my  vanity  ?  It  seems  to  me,  that  is  friendly  kind 
ness.  I'm  helping  you  on." 

"  I  do  not  know  anything  about  your  vanity.  But 
I  do  know  how  I  feel  toward  you — what  every  word 
from  you  means  to  me." 

There  was  wonder  and  some  haughtiness  in  her 
steady  gaze,  as  she  said  :  "  I  do  not  understand  you 
at  all.  Your  words  are  the  words  of  an  extravagant 
but  not  very  adroit  flatterer.  Your  looks  are  the 
looks  of  a  man  without  knowledge  of  the  world  and 
without  a  sense  of  proportion." 


A    MARRIED    MAN.  203 

"  Why  ?  " 

She  thought  a  moment,  then  turned  toward  him 
with  her  frank,  direct  expression.  "  I  have  been 
going  about  in  your  parish  for  several  days  now. 
And  everywhere  I  have  heard  of  you.  Your  helpers 
and  those  that  are  helped  all  talk  of  you  as  if  you 
were  a  sort  of  god.  You  are  their  god.  They  draw 
their  inspiration,  their  courage,  their  motive-power 
from  you.  They  work,  they  strive,  because  they 
wish  to  win  your  praise." 

"  I  have  been  here  fifteen  years,"  he  explained 
with  unaffected  modesty,  "  and  as  I  am  at  the  head, 
naturally  everything  seems  to  come  from  me.  In 
reality  I  do  little." 

"  That  is  not  to  my  point.  I  wasn't  trying  to 
compliment  you.  What  I  mean  is  that  I  find  you 
are  a  man  of  influence  and  power  in  this  community. 
And  you  must  be  conscious  of  this  power.  And 
since  you  evidently  wield  it  well,  you  have  it  by 
right  of  merit.  Yet  you  wish  me  to  believe  that 
you  bow  down  in  this  humble  fashion  before  a 
woman  of  whom  you  know  nothing."  She  laughed. 

"  Well?  "  he  said,  looking  impassively  out  of  the 
window. 

"  It  is  ridiculous,  impossible.  And  if  it  were  true, 
it  would  be  disgraceful — something  for  you  to  be 
ashamed  of." 

He  turned  his  head  slowly  until  his  eyes  met  hers. 
She  felt  as  if  she  were  being  caught  up  by  some 
mighty  force,  perilous  but  intoxicating-  She  tried 
to  look  away  but  could  not. 


204    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

"  What  a  voice  you  have  !  "  he  said.  "  It  makes 
me  think  of  an  evening  long  ago  in  England.  I  was 
walking  alone  in  the  moonlight  through  one  of  those 
beautiful  hedged  roads  when  suddenly  I  heard  a 
nightingale.  It  foretold  your  voice — you." 

She  turned  her  eyes  away  and  looked  upon  the 
darkening  street.  The  sense  of  his  nearness  thrilled 
through  her  in  waves  that  made  her  giddy. 

"  Now,  do  you  understand  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  under 
stand — and,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I'm  afraid." 

"  Then  you  know  why  I,  too,  am  afraid  ?  " 

"  You  must  not  speak  of  it  again." 

They  stood  there  silently  for  a  moment  or  two, 
then  she  said :  "  I  must  be  going."  And  she  was 
saying  to  herself  in  a  panic,  "  I  am  mad.  Where  is 
my  honour — my  self-respect  ?  Where  is  my  com 
mon-sense?" 

"  I  will  go  with  you  to  the  car,"  he  said.  "  I  feel 
that  I  ought  to  be  ashamed.  And  it  frightens  me 
that  I  am  not.  Perhaps  I  am  ashamed,  but  proud 
of  it." 

"  Good-night."  She  held  out  her  hand.  "  Good 
bye.  I  am  used  to  going  about  alone.  I  prefer  it. 
Good-bye." 

•**•#### 

Those  were  days  of  restless  waiting,  of  advance 
and  retreat,  of  strong  resolves  suddenly  and  weakly 
crumbling  into  shifting  mists.  She  said  to  herself 
many  times  each  day,  "  I  shall  not,  I  cannot  see  him 
acrain."  She  assured  herself  that  she  had  herself 


A    MARRIED    MAN.          205 

under  proper  control.  But  there  was  a  voice  that 
called  mockingly  from  a  subcellar  of  her  mind  :  "  I 
am  a  prisoner,  but  I  am  here." 

One  morning  at  breakfast,  after  what  she  thought 
a  very  adroit  "  leading  up,"  she  ventured  to  say  to 
Joan  :  "  What  do  you  think  of  a  woman  who  falls 
in  love  with  a  married  man  ?  " 

Joan  kept  her  expression  steady.  To  herself  she 
said  :  "  I  thought  so.  It  isn't  in  a  woman's  nature 
to  be  thoroughly  interested  in  life  unless  there  is 
some  one  man."  Aloud  she  said  :  "  Why,  I  think 
she  ought  to  bestir  herself  to  fall  out  again." 

"  But  suppose  that  she  didn't  wish  to." 

"  Then  I  think  she  is — imbecile." 

"  You  are  so  uncompromising,  Joan,"  protested 
Emily. 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  much  of  women  who  in- 
trigue,  or  of  men  either.  It's  a  sneaky,  lying,  muddy 
business." 

'•  But  suppose  you  accidentally  fell  in  love  with  a 
married  man  ?  " 

"  I  can't  suppose  it.  I  don't  believe  people  fall 
in  love  accidentally.  They're  simply  in  love  with 
love,  and  they  have  morbid,  unhealthy  tastes.  Be 
sides,  married  men  are  drearily  unromantic.  They 
always  look  so — so  married." 

"  Well,  then,  what  do  you  think  of  a  married  man 
who  falls  in  love  with  a  girl  ?  " 

"  Very  poorly,  indeed.  And  if  he  tells  her  of  it, 
he  ought  to  be  pilloried." 

"  You  are  becoming — conventional." 


206    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

"  Not  at  all.  But  to  fall  in  love  honestly  a  man 
and  a  woman  must  both  be  free.  If  either  has  ties, 
each  is  bound  from  the  other  by  them.  And  if  it's 
the  man  that  is  tied,  there's  simply  no  excuse  for 
him  if  he  doesn't  heed  the  first  sign  of  danger." 

"But  it  might  be  a  terrible  temptation  to  both  of 
them.  Love  is  very  — very  compelling,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  There's  a  great  deal  of  nonsense  talked  about 
love,  as  you  must  know  by  this  time.  Of  course, 
love  is  alluring,  and  when  indulged  in  by  sensible 
people,  not  to  excess,  it's  stimulating,  like  alcohol 
in  moderation.  But  because  cocaine  could  make 
me  temporarily  happier  than  anything  else  in  the 
world,  does  that  make  it  sensible  for  me  to  form  the 
cocaine  habit  ?  " 

Joan  paused,  then  added  with  emphasis:  "And 
there  is  a  great  deal  that  is  called  love  that  is  no 
more  love  than  the  wolf  was  Little  Red  Riding- 
hood's  grandmother." 

Emily  felt  that  Joan  was  talking  obvious  com- 
mon  sense  and  that  she  herself  agreed  with  her  en 
tirely — so  far  as  her  reason  was  concerned.  "  But," 
'she  thought,  "  the  trouble  is  that  reason  doesn't 
rule."  A  few  days  later  she  went  to  dinner  at 
Theresa's.  As  she  entered  the  dining-room  the  first 
person  upon  whom  her  eyes  fell  was  a  tall,  slender 
girl,  fair,  handsome  through  health  and  high  color, 
and  with  Stanhope's  peculiarly  courageous  yet 
gentle  dark  eyes —  "  It  must  be  his  sister."  She 
asked  Theresa. 

"  It's  Evelyn  Stanhope,"  she  replied,  "  the  daugh- 


A    MARRIED    MAN.  207 

ter  of  our  clergyman.  He's  a  tremendously  hand 
some  man.  All  the  woman  are  crazy  about  him." 
Theresa  looked  at  her  peculiarly. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  asked  Emily,  instantly  taking 
fright,  though  she  did  not  show  it. 

"  I  thought  perhaps  you'd  heard." 

"  Heard  what  ?  " 

"  All  about  Miss  Stanhope  and — and  Edgar." 

"  You  don't  mean  that  Edgar  has  recovered  from 
me?  How  unflattering!"  Emily's  smile  was 
delightfully  natural — and  relieved. 

"  He's  got  love  and  marriage  on  the  brain,  and  he's 
broken-hearted,  you  know.  And  in  those  cases 
if  it  can't  be  the  woman  it's  bound  to  be  a  woman." 

Emily  was  in  the  mood  to  be  completely  re 
signed  to  giving  up  to  another  that  which  she  did 
not  want  herself.  She  studied  Miss  Stanhope  with 
out  prejudice  against  her  and  found  her  sweet  but 
as  yet  colourless,  a  proper  young  person  for  Edgar 
to  marry,  one  toward  whom  she  could  not  possibly 
have  felt  the  usual  dog-in-the-manger  jealousy. 
After  dinner  she  sat  near  her  and  encouraged  her 
in  the  bird-like  chatter  of  the  school  girl.  She  was 
listened  to  with  patience  and  tolerance;  because 
she  was  young  and  fresh  and  delighted  with  every 
thing  including  herself,  amusingly,  not  offensively. 
She  fell  in  love  with  Emily  and  timidly  asked  if 
she  might  come  to  see  her. 

"That  would  be  delightful,"  said  Emily  with 
enthusiasm,  falling  through  infection  into  a  mode 
of  speech  and  thought  long  outgrown.  "  I'm  sure 


208    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

we  shall  be  great  friends.  Theresa  will  bring  you 
on  Saturday  afternoon.  That  is  my  free  day.  You 
see,  I'm  a  working-woman.  I  work  every  day  ex 
cept  Saturday." 

"  Sundays  too  ?  "  asked  Evelyn. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  prefer  " — she  stopped  short.  "  Sun 
day  is  a  busy  day  with  us,"  she  said  instead. 

"  Isn't  that  dreadful  ?  " 

"  Yes — it  is  distressing."  Without  intention 
Emily  put  enough  irony  into  her  voice  to  make 
Evelyn  look  at  her  sharply.  "  It  keeps  me  from 
church." 

"  Well,  sometimes  I  think  I'd  like  to  be  kept 
from  church."  Evelyn  said  this  in  a  consolatory 
tone.  "  I'm  a  clergyman's  daughter  and  I  have  to 
go  often — to  set  a  good  example."  She  laughed. 
"  Mamma  is  so  nervous  that  she  can  only  go  oc 
casionally  and  my  brother  Sam  is  a  perfect  heathen. 
But  I  often  copy  papa's  sermons.  He  says  he  likes 
my  large  round  hand  as  a  change  from  the  type 
writing.  Then  I  like  to  listen  and  see  how  many 
changes  he  makes.  You'd  be  surprised  how  much 
better  it  all  sounds  when  it's  spoken — really  quite 
new." 

Papa!  Papa's  Sermons!  And  a  Sam,  probably 
as  big  as  this  great  girl ! 

"  Is  your  brother  younger  or  older  than  you  ?  " 

"  A  year  older.  He's  at  college  now — or  at  least, 
he's  supposed  to  be.  It's  surprising  how  little  he 
has  to  stay  there.  He's  very  gay — a  little  too  wild, 
perhaps." 


A    MARRIED    MAN.          209 

She  was  proud  of  Sam's  wildness,  full  as  proud 
as  she  was  of  her  father's  sermons.  She  rattled 
cheerfully  on  until  it  was  time  for  her  to  go  and, 
as  Emily  and  she  were  putting  on  their  wraps  at 
the  same  time,  she  kissed  her  impulsively,  blushing 
a  little,  saying  "You're  so  beautiful.  You  don't, 
mind,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Mind  ? "  Emily  laughed  and  kissed  her. 
Evelyn  wondered  why  there  were  tears  in  the  eyes 
of  this  fascinating  woman  with  the  musical  voice  and 
the  expression  like  a  goddess  of  liberty's. 

******** 

The  next  morning  Dr.  Stanhope,  at  breakfast 
and  gloomy,  brightened  as  his  daughter  came  in 
and  sat  opposite  him. 

"  I  had  such  a  glorious  time  at  the  Waylands' !  " 
she  said.  "  The  dinner  was  lovely." 

"  Did  Edgar  take  you  in  ?  '' 

"Oh,  no."  She  blushed.  "He  wasn't  there. 
He's  in  Stoughton,  you  know.  But  I  met  the  most 
beautiful  woman.  She  seemed  so  young,  and  yet 
she  had  such  a  wise,  experienced  look.  And  she 
was  so  unconscious  how  beautiful  she  was.  You 
never  saw  such  a  sweet,  pretty  mouth !  And  her 
teeth  were  like — like " 

"  Pearls,"  suggested  her  father.  "  They're  always 
spoken  of  as  pearls — when  they're  spoken  of  at  all." 

"  No — because  pearls  are  blue-white,  whereas  hers 
were  w/^zV^- white." 

"  But  who  was  this  lady  with  the  teeth  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  have  a  chance  to  ask — only  her  name. 


210    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

She  said  she  was  a  working-woman.  She's  a  Miss 
Bromfield." 

Stanhope  dropped  his  knife  and  fork  and  looked 
at  his  daughter  with  an  expression  of  horror. 

"  Why,  what  is  it,  father  ?  Is  there  something 
wrong  about  her?  It  can't  be.  And  I — I  arranged 
to  call  on  her  !  " 

"  No — no,"  he  said  hastily.  "  I  was  startled  by  a 
coincidence.  She's  a  nice  woman,  nice  in  every 
way.  But — did  she  ask  you  to  call  ?  " 

"  No — I  asked  her.  But  she  was  very  friendly, 
and  when  I  kissed  her  in  the  dressing-room  she 
kissed  me,  and — she  had  such  a  queer,  sad  expres 
sion.  I  thought  perhaps  she  had  a  sister  like 
me  who  had  died." 

"  Perhaps  she  had."  Stanhope  looked  pensively 
at  his  daughter.  To  himself  he  said  :  "  Yes,  prob 
ably  a  twin  sister — the  herself  of  a  few  years  ago." 

"And  I'm  going  to  see  her  next  Saturday," 
continued  his  daughter.  "  I'm  sure  Mrs.  Wayland 
will  take  me." 

11  To  see  whom  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Stanhope,  coming 
into  the  room. 

Stanhope  rose  and  drew  out  a  chair  for  her. 
"  We  were  talking  of  a  Miss  Bromfield  whom 
Evelyn  met  at  the  Waylands'  last  night.  You  may 
remember — she  came  here  one  afternoon  for  the 
Democrat — about  the  church's  work." 

"  I  remember  ;  she  looked  at  me  quite  insolently, 
exactly  as  if  I  were  an  intruding  servant.  What 
was  she  doing  at  Wayland's?  I'm  surprised  at 


A    MARRIED    MAN.  211 

them.  But  why  is  Evelyn  talking  of  going  to 
see  her?  I'm  astonished  at  you,  Evelyn." 

Evelyn  and  her  father  looked  steadily  at  the 
table.  Finally  Evelyn  spoke :  "  Oh,  but  you  are 
quite  mistaken,  mother  dear.  She  was  a  lady/ 
really  she  was/'  * 

"  Impossible,"  said  Mrs.  Stanhope.  "  She  is 
a  working  girl.  No  doubt  she's  a  poor  relation 
of  the  Waylands." 

Stanhope  rose,  walked  to  the  window,  and  stood 
staring  into  the  gardens.  The  veins  in  his  forehead 
were  swollen.  And  he  seemed  less  the  minister 
than  ever,  and  more  the  incarnation  of  some  vast, 
inchoate  force,  just  now  a  force  of  dark  fury. 
Gradually  he  whipped  his  temper  down  until  he  was 
standing  over  it,  pale  but  in  control. 

"  I  wish  to  speak  to  your  mother,  Evelyn,"  he 
said  in  an  even  voice. 

Evelyn  left  the  room,  closing  the  door  behind 
her.  Stanhope  resumed  his  seat  at  the  table.  His 
wife  looked  at  him,  then  into  her  plate,  her  lips 
nervous. 

"Only  this,"  he  said.  "You  will  let  Evelyn 
go  to  see  Miss  Bromfield."  His  voice  was  polite, 
gentle.  "  And  I  must  again  beg  of  you  not  to 
express  before  our  children  those — those  ideas 
of  disrespect  for  labour  and  respect  for  idleness 
which,  as  you  know,  are  more  offensive  to  me  than 
any  others  of  the  falsehoods  which  it  is  my  life  work 
to  fight." 

She  was  trembling  with  anger  and  fear.     Yet  in 


212     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

her  sullen  eyes  there  was  cringing  adoration.  One 
sees  the  same  look  in  the  eyes  of  a  dog  that  is  being 
beaten  by  its  master,  as  it  shows  its  teeth  yet  dares 
not  utter  a  whine  of  its  rage  and  pain  lest  it  offend 
further. 

"You  know  we  never  do  agree  about  social 
distinctions,  Arthur,"  she  said,  in  a  soothing  tone. 

"  I  know  we  agreed  long  ago  not  to  discuss  the 
matter,"  he  replied,  kindly  but  wearily.  "  And  I 
know  that  we  agreed  that  our  children  were  not  to 
hear  a  suggestion  that  their  father  was  teaching 
false  views." 

"  We  can't  all  be  as  broad  as  you  are,  Arthur.'* 

"  If  I  were  to  speak  what  is  on  the  tip  of  my 
tongue,"  he  said  good-humouredly,  "we  should 
reopen  the  sealed  subject.  I  must  go.  They  are 
waiting  for  me." 

That  afternoon  Mrs.  Stanhope  wrote  asking 
Theresa  to  go  with  Evelyn  to  Miss  Bromfield's. 
And  on  Saturday  Evelyn  went,  taking  her  mother's 
card. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

A  PRECIPICE. 

A  WEEK  after  Evelyn's  call,  the  hall  boy 
brought     Edgar     Wayland's   card    to 
Emily.     She  was   alone   in  the  apart 
ment,  Joan  having  gone  to  the  theatre 
with  "  her  professor."     She  hesitated, 
looked  an  apology  to  her  writing  spread  upon  the 
table,  then  told   the  boy  to  show  him  up.     He   was 
dressed  with   unusual  care   even  for  him,   and  his 
face  expressed  the  intensity  of  tragic  determination 
of  which  the  human  countenance  is  capable  only  at 
or  before  twenty-eight. 

"  I've  never  seen  your  apartment."  His  glance 
was  inspecting  the  room  and  the  partly  visible  two 
rooms  opening  out  of  it.  "  It  is  so  like  you.  How 
few  people  have  any  taste  in  getting  together 
furniture  and — and  stuff," 

"  When  one  has  little  to  spend,  one  is  more  care 
ful  and  thoughtful  perhaps." 

"  That's  the  reason  tenement  flats  are  so  tasteful.'* 
Edgar's  face  relaxed  at  his  own  humour,  then  with  a 
self-rebuking  frown  resumed  its  former  mournful 
inflexibility.  "  But  I  did  not  come  here  to  talk 
about  furniture.  I  came  to  talk  about  you  and  me. 
Emmy,  was  it  final?  Are  you  sure  you  won't — 
won't  have  me  ?  " 


214    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

Emily  looked  at  him  with  indignant  contempt, 
forgetting  that  Theresa  had  not  said  he  was  actually 
engaged  to  Evelyn.  "  I  had  begun  to  think  you 
incapable  of  such — such  baseness  — now." 

"  Baseness  ?  Don't,  please.  It  isn't  as  bad  as  all 
that — only  persistence.  I  simply  can't  give  you  up, 
it  seems  to  me.  And — I  had  to  try  one  last  time — 
because — the  fact  is,  I'm  about  to  ask  another  girl 
to  marry  me.'* 

Emily  showed  her  surprise,  then  remembered  and 
looked  relieved.  "  Why — I  thought  you  had  asked 
her.  I  must  warn  you  that  I  know  her,  and  far 
too  good  she  is  for  you." 

"You  know  her?" 

"  Yes — so  let's  talk  no  more  about  it.  I'll  forget 
what  you  said." 

"  Well,  what  of  it  ?  "  Edgar  rose  and  faced  her. 
"  You  are  thinking  it  dishonourable  of  me  to  come  to 
you  this  way.  But  you  wrong  me.  If  she  never 
saw  me  again,  she'd  forget  me  in  a  year — or  less. 
So  I  tell  you  straight  out  that  I'm  marrying  her 
because  I1  can't  get  you.  I'm  desperate  and  lone 
some  and  I  want  to  have  a  home  to  go  to." 

"  You  couldn't  possibly  do  better  than  marry 
Evelyn.  I  know  her,  Edgar.  And  I  know,  as  only 
a  woman  can  know  another  woman,  how  genuine 
she  is." 

«  But " — Edgar's  eyes  had  a  look  of  pain  that 
touched  her.  "  I  want  you,  Emmy.  I  always 
shall.  A  man  wants  the  best.  And  you're  the 
best — in  looks,  in  brains,  in  every  way.  You'd 


A    PRECIPICE.  215 

have  everything  and  I'd  never  bother  you.  And 
you  can  stop  this  grind  and  be  like  other  women — 
that  is — I  mean — you  know — I  don't  mean  any 
thing  against  your  work — only  it  is  unnatural  for  a 
woman  like  you  to  have  to  work  for  a  living." 

Emily  felt  that  she  need  not  and  must  not  take 
him  seriously.  She  laughed  at  his  embarrass 
ment. 

"  You  don't  understand — and  I  can't  make  you 
understand.  It  isn't  that  I  love  work.  I  like  to  sit 
in  the  sunshine  and  be  waited  upon  as  well  as 
any  one.  But " 

"  And  you  could  sit  in  the  sunshine — or  in  the 
shade,  Emmy." 

"  But — let  me  finish  please.  Whatever  one  gets 
that's  worth  while  in  this  life  one  has  to  pay  for. 
The  price  of  freedom — to  a  woman  just  the  same  as  a 
man — is  work,  hard  work.  And  if  it's  natural  for  a 
woman  to  be  a  helpless  for-sale,  then  it's  the 
naturalness  of  so  much  else  that's  nature.  And 
what  are  we  here  for  except  to  improve  upon 
nature  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  much  about  these  theories. 
I  hate  them — they  stand  between  you  and  me. 
And  I  want  you  so,  Emmy  !  You'll  be  free.  You 
;know  father  and  I  both  will  do  everything — any 
thing  for  you  and " 

Emily's  cheeks  flushed  and  there  was  impatience 
and  scorn  in  her  eyes  and  in  the  curve  of  her 
lips. 

"  You  mean  well,  Edgar,  but  you  must  not  talk 


216     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

to  me  in  that  way.  It  makes  me  feel  as  if  you 
thought  I  could  be  bought — as  if  you  were  bidding 
for  me." 

"  I  don't  care  what  you  call  it,"  he  said  sullenly. 
"  I'd  rather  have  you  as  just  a  friend,  but  always 
near  me  than — there  isn't  any  comparison." 

"  And  I  shall  always  be  your  friend,  Edgar.  You 
will  get  over  this.  Honestly  now,  isn't  it  more 
than  half,  nearly  all,  your  hatred  of  being  baffled  ? 
If  I  were  throwing  myself  at  you,  as  I  once  was, 
you'd  fly  from  me.  Six  months  after  you've 
married  Evelyn,  you'll  be  thankful  you  did  it. 
You'd  not  like  a  woman  so  full  of  caprices  and  sur 
prises  as  I  am.  But  I  will  not  argue  it." 

"  I  wonder  if  you'll  ever  fall  in  love  ?  "  he  said 
wistfully. 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  Probably  I  expect  too 
much  in  a  man.  Again,  I  might  care  only  for  a 
man  who  was  out  of  reach." 

"  You're  too  romantic,  Emily,  for  this  life.  You 
forget  that  you're  more  or  less  human  after  all,  and 
have  to  deal  with  human  beings." 

11 1  wish  I  could  forget  that  I'm  human."  Emily 
sighed.  Edgar  looked  at  her  suspiciously.  "  No  " 
she  went  on.  •'  I'm  not  happy  either,  Edgar.  Oh,  it 
takes  so  much  courage  to  stand  up  for  one's  princi 
ples,  one's  ideas." 

"  But  why  do  it  ?  Why  not  accept  what 
everybody  says  is  so,  and  go  along  comfortably  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  I  often  ask  myself.  But — well,  I 
can't." 


A    PRECIPICE.  217 

"  Emmy,  do  you  think  it's  right  for  me  to  marry 
Evelyn,  feeling  as  I  do  ?  " 

"  Do  you  ?  "  She  answered  this  difficult  question 
in  morals  by  turning  it  on  him,  because  she  wished 
to  escape  the  dilemma.  How  could  she  decide  for 
janother  ?  Why  should  she  judge  what  was  right 
for  Edgar,  what  best  for  Evelyn  ? 

"Well — not  unless  I  told  her.  Not  too  much, 
you  know.  But  enough  to " 

"  You  mustn't  talk  to  me  about  Evelyn,"  Emily 
interrupted.  "  It's  not  fair  to  her.  You  compel  me 
to  seem  to  play  the  traitor  to  her.  I  must  not  know 
anything  about  your  and  her  affairs.  " 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  then  she  went  on: 
"  She  is  my  friend,  and,  I  hope,  always  shall  be.  It 
would  pain  me  terribly  if  she  should  suspect ;  and 
it  would  be  an  unnecessary  pain  to  her.  A  man 
ought  never  to  tell  a  woman,  or  a  woman  a  man, 
anything,  no  matter  how  true  it  is,  if  it's  going  to 
rankle  on  and  on,  long  after  it's  ceased  to  be  true. 
And  your  feeling  for  me  isn't  important  even  now. 
If  you  marry  her,  resolve  to  make  her  happy.  And 
if  you  never  create  any  clouds,  there'll  never  be 
any  for  her — and  soon  won't  be  any  for  you." 

He  left  her  after  a  few  minutes,  and  his  last  look — 
all  around  the  room,  then  at  her— was  so  genuinely 
unhappy  that  it  saddened  her  for  the  evening. 
"  Fate  is  preparing  a  revenge  upon  me,"  she  thought 
dejectedly.  "  I  can  feel  it  coming.  Why  can't  I, 
why  won't  I,  put  Arthur  out  of  my  mind  ?  "  And 
then  she  scoffed  at  herself  unconvincingly  for  calling 


218     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

Stanhope,  Arthur,  for  permitting  herself  to  be 
swept  off  her  feet  by  the  middle-aged  husband  of  a 
middle-aged  wife,  the  father  of  grown  children. 
"  How  Evelyn  would  shrink  from  me  if  she  knew — 

and  yet " 

What  kind  of  honour,  justice,  is  it,  she  thought, 
that  binds  him  to  his  wife,  that  holds  us  apart? 
With  one  brief  life — with  only  a  little  part  of  that 
for  intense  enjoyment — and  to  sacrifice  happiness, 
heaven,  for  a  mere  notion.  "  What  does  God  care 
about  us  wretched  little  worms?"  she  said  to  her 
self.  "  Everywhere  the  law  of  the  survival  of  the 
fittest — the  best  law  after  all,  in  spite  of  its  cruelty. 
And  /am  the  fittest  for  him.  He  belongs  to  me. 
He  is  mine.  Why  not? — Why  can't  I  convince 
myself?" 

******** 

Evelyn  asked  Emily  to  go  with  her  to  the  opera 
the  following  Saturday  afternoon.  They  met  in 
the  Broadway  lobby  of  the  Metropolitan,  and 
Emily  at  once  saw  that  Evelyn  was  "  engaged." 
She  was  radiant  with  triumph  and  modest  impor 
tance.  "  You're  the  first  one  I've  told  outside  the 
family.  I  haven't  even  written  to  Catherine  Fol- 
som — she's  to  be  my  maid  of  honour,  you  know. 
We  promised  each  other  at  school." 

"  He  will  make  you  happy,  I'm  sure."  Emily  was 
amused  at  Evelyn's  child-like  excitement,  yet  there 
were  tears  near  her  eyes  too.  "  What  an  infant  she 
is,"  she  was  thinking,  "  and  how  unjust  it  is,  how 
dangerous  that  she  should  have  to  get  her  experi- 


A    PRECIPICE.  219 

ence  of  man  after  she  has  pledged  herself  not  to 
profit  by  it." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure  I  shall  be,"  said  Evelyn.  "We'll 
have  everything  to  make  us  happy.  And  I  shall  be 
free.  I  do  hate  being  watched  all  the  time  and 
having  to  do  just  what  mamma  says." 

"  Yes,  you  will  be  very  free  ,"  agreed  Emily,  com 
menting  to  herself :  "  What  do  these  birds  bred  in 
captivity  ever  know  about  freedom  ?  She  has  no 
idea  that  she's  only  being  transferred  to  a  larger 
cage  where  she'll  find  a  companion  whom  she  may 
or  may  not  like.  But — they're  often  happy,  these 
caged  birds.  And  I  wonder  if  we  wild  birds  ever 
are?" 

Evelyn  was  prattling  on.  "  He  asked  me  in  such 
a  nice  way  and  didn't  frighten  me.  I'd  been  afraid 
he'd  seize  me — or — or  something,  when  the  time 
came.  And  he  had  such  a  sad,  solemn  look.  He's 
so  experienced  !  He  hinted  something  about  the 
past,  but  I  hurried  him  away  from  that.  Sam  says 
men  all  have  knowledge  of  the  world,  if  they're  any 
good.  But  I'm  sure  Edgar  has  always  been  a  nice 
man." 

"Don't  bother  about  the  past,"  said  Emily. 
"  The  future  will  be  quite  enough  to  occupy  you  if 
you  look  after  it  properly." 

The  opera  was  La  Boh£me  and  Evelyn,  busy  with 
her  great  event,  gave  that  lady  and  her  sorrows 
little  attention.  "  It's  dreadfully  unreal,  isn't  it  ?  " 
she  chattered.  "  Of  course  a  man  never  could 
really  care  for  a  woman  who  had  so  little  self-respect 


220    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

as  that,  could  he  ?  I'm  sure  a  real  man,  like  Edgar, 
would  never  act  in  that  way  with  a  woman  who 
wasn't  married  to  him,  could  he?" 

"  I'm  sure  he'd  despise  all  such  women  from  the 
bottom  of  his  heart,"  said  Emily,  looking  amusedly 
at  the  "  canary,  discoursing  from  its  cage-world  of 
the  great  world  outside  which  it  probably  will  never 
see." 

"  I've  had  a  lot  of  experience  with  that  side  of 
life,"  continued  the  "  canary." 

"  Goodness  gracious !  "  exclaimed  Emily  in  mock 
horror.  "  Do  they  lead  double  lives  in  the  nursery 
nowadays  ?  " 

"  Mamma  kept  us  close,  you  know.  We  live  in 
such  a  dreadful  neighbourhood — down  in  Grand 
Street.  I  was  usually  at  grandfather's  up  at  Tarry- 
town  when  I  wasn't  in  school.  But  I  had  to  come 
home  sometimes.  And  I  used  to  peep  into  the 
streets  from  the  windows,  and  then  I'd  see  the 
most  awful  women  going  by.  It  made  me  really 
sick.  It  must  be  dreadful  for  a  woman  ever  to 
forget  herself." 

"  Dreadful,"  assented  Emily  ,  resisting  with  no 
difficulty  the  feeble  temptation  to  try  to  broaden 
this  narrow  young  mind.  "  It  would  take  years," 
she  thought,  "to  educate  her.  And  then  she 
probably  wouldn't  really  understand,  would  only 
be  tempted  to  lower  herself." 

The  distinction  between  license  and  broad- 
mindedness  was  abysmal,  Emily  felt ;  but  she  also 
admitted — with  reluctance — that  the  abyss  was  so 


A    PRECIPICE.  221 

narrow  that  one  might  inadvertently  step  across  it, 
if  she  were  not  an  Emily  Bromfield,  and,  even  then, 
very,  very  watchful. 

She  was  turning  into  the  Park  at  Fifth  Avenue 
and  Fifty-ninth  Street  a  few  evenings  later,  on  her 
way  home  from  the  office,  when  Stanhope,  driving 
rapidly  downtown,  saw  her,  stopped  his  cab,  got  out 
and  dismissed  it.  She  had  been  revolving  a  plan 
for  resuming  her  self-respect  and  her  peace  of  mind, 
how  she  would  talk  with  him  when  she  saw  him, 
would  compel  him  to  aid  her  in — then  she  saw  him 
coming ;  and  her  face,  coloured  high  by  the  sharp 
wind,  flushed  a  hotter  crimson  ;  and  her  resolve  fled. 

"May  I  walk  through  the  Park  with  you?"  he 
said  abruptly ;  and  without  waiting  for  her  to  as 
sent,  he  set  out  with  her  in  the  direction  in  which 
she  had  been  going.  In  a  huge,  dark  overcoat,  that 
came  to  within  a  few  inches  of  the  ground,  he 
looked  more  tremendous  than  ever.  And  as  Emily 
walked  beside  him,  the  blood  surged  deliriously 
through  her  veins.  "  This  is  the  man  of  all  men," 
she  thought.  "  And  he  loves  me,  loves  me.  And  I 
was  thinking  that  I  must  give  him  up.  As  if  I 
could  or  would  !  " 

"  A  man  might  have  all  the  wealth  in  the  world, 
and  all  the  power,  and  all  the  adulation,"  his  voice 
acted  upon  her  nerves  like  the  low  notes  of  a  violin, 
"  and  if  he  were  a  man — if  he  were  a  real  human 

being — and  did  not  have  love "  He  paused  and 

looked  at  her.  "  Without  it  life  is  lonelier  than 
the  grave." 


222      A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

Emily  was  silent.  She  could  see  the  grave, 
could  hear  the  earth  rattling  down  upon  the  coffin. 
Was  he  not  stating  the  truth — a  truth  to  shrink 
from? 

He  said  :  "  I  was  born  on  a  farm  out  West — the 
son  of  a  man  who  was  ruined  in  the  East  and  went 
West  to  hide  himself  and  to  fancy  he  was  trying  to 
rebuild.  He  was  sad  and  silent.  And  in  that  sad 
silence  I  grew  up  with  books  and  nature  for  my 
companions.  I  longed  to  be  a  leader  of  men.  I 
admired  the  great  moral  teachers  of  the  past.  I 
felt  rather  than  understood  religion — God,  a  world 
of  woe,  man  working  for  his  salvation  through  help 
ing  others  to  work  out  theirs.  I  cared  nothing  for 
theology — only  for  religion.  I  could  feel — I  never 
could  reason  ;  I  cannot  learn  to  reason.  It  isn't 
important  how  I  worked  my  way  upward.  It  isn't 
important  how  long  the  way  or  how  painful.  I 
went  straight  on,  caring  for  nothing  except  the 
widest  chances  to  help  the  march  upward.  You 
know  what  the  parish  downtown  is — what  the  work 

is,  how  it  has  been  built.  But "  He  paused, 

and  when  he  spoke  it  was  with  an  effort.  "  One  by 
one  I  have  lost  my  inspirations.  And  when  I  saw 
you  there  in  Paris  I  saw  as  in  a  flash — it  was  like  a 
miracle — what  was  the  cause,  why  I  was  beaten  in 
the  very  hour  of  victory." 

Emily  had  ceased  to  fight  against  the  emotions 
which  surged  higher  and  higher  under  the  invoca 
tion  of  his  presence  and  his  voice. 

"  A   man    of   my   temperament    may    not   work 


A    PRECIPICE.  223 

alone,"  he  went  on.  "  He  must  have  some  one — a 
woman — beside  him.  And  they  together  must 
keep  the  faith — the  faith  in  the  here  and  the  now, 
the  faith  in  mankind  and  in  the  journey  upward 
through  the  darkness,  the  fog,  the  cold,  up  the 
precipices,  with  many  a  fall  and  many  a  fright,  but 
always  upward  and  onward." 

He  drew  a  long  breath,  and,  looking  down  at  her, 
saw  her  looking  up  at  him,  her  eyes  reflecting  the 
glow  of  his  enthusiasm. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  by  myself  I  am  nothing.  But 
with  another  I  could  do  much,  for  I,  too,  love  the 
journey  upward." 

He  stopped  and  caught  both  her  hands  in  his. 
"  I  need  you — need  you,"  he  said.  They  were 
standing  at  the  turn  of  the  path  near  the  Mall, 
facing  the  broad,  snow-draped  lawns.  "  And  1 
feel  that  you  need  me.  I  am  no  longer  alone.  Life 
has  a  meaning,  a  purpose." 

"  A  purpose  ?  "  She  drew  her  hands  away  and 
suddenly  felt  the  cold  and  the  sharp  wind,  and  saw 
the  tangled  lines  of  the  bare  boughs,  black  and  for 
bidding  against  the  sunset  sky.  "  What  purpose? 
You  forget." 

"  No,  I  remember !  "  He  spoke  defiantly.  "  I 
have  been  permitting  that  which  is  dead  to  cling  to 
me  and  shut  out  sunlight  and  air  and  growth.  But 
I  shall  permit  it  no  longer.  I  dare  not." 

"  No,  we  dare  not,"  she  said,  dreamily.  "  You 
are  right.  The  ghosts  that  wave  us  back  are  wav 
ing  us  not  from,  but  to  destruction.  But — even  if 


224    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

it  were  not  so,  I'm  afraid  I'd  say, '  Evil,  be  thou  my 
good  V 

"  It  is  true — true  of  me  also." 

At  the  entrance  to  her  house  they  parted,  their 
eyes  bright  with  visions  of  the  future.  As  she 
went  up  in  the  elevator,  her  head  began  to  ache  as 
if  she  were  coming  from  the  delirium  of  an  opium 
dream. 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

A  "  BETTER  SELF." 

EMILY  went  directly  to  her  room.     "Tell 
Miss  Gresham  not  to  wait,"  she  said  to 
the  maid,  "  and  please  save  only  a  very 
little  for  me."     She  slept  two  hours  and 
awoke  free  from  the  headache,  but  low- 
spirited.     Joan  came  into  the  dining-room  to  keep 
her  company  while  she  tried  to  eat,  then  they  sat  in 
the  library-drawing-room  before  the  fire.     For  the 
first  time  in  years  Emily  felt  that  she  needed  advice, 
or,  at  least,  needed  to  state  her  case  aloud  in  hope 
of  seeing  it  more  clearly. 

"  You  are  not  well  this  evening,"  Joan  said  pres 
ently.  "  Shall  I  read  to  you  ?  " 

"  No,  let  us  talk.  Or,  rather,  please  encourage 
me  to  talk  about  myself.  I  want  to  tell  you  some 
thing,  and  I  don't  know  how  to  begin." 

"  Don't  begin.  I'm  sure  you'll  regret  it.  When 
ever  I  feel  the  confidential  mood  coming,  I  always 
put  it  off  till  to-morrow." 

"  Yes-— but— there  are  times " 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  approve  something  you've 
decided  to  do,  or  to  dissuade  you  from  doing  some 
thing  you  would  not  do  anyhow?'  It's  always  one 
or  the  other." 


226    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

"  I'm  not  sure  which  it  is." 

Joan  lit  a  cigarette  and  stretched  herself  among 
the  cushions  of  the  divan.  "Well,  what  is  it? 
Money?" 

"  No." 

"  Then  it's  not  serious.  Money  troubles  and  poor 
health  are  about  the  only  serious  calamities." 

"  No — it's — Joan,  I've  been  making  an  idiot  of 
myself.  I've  lost  my  head  over  a  married  man." 
The  words  came  with  a  rush. 

"  But  you  practically  confessed  all  that  the  other 
day.  And  I  told  you  then  what  I  thought.  Either 
get  rid  of  him  straight  off,  or  steady  your  head  and 
let  him  hang  about  until  you  are  sick  of  him." 

"  But — you  don't  understand.  Of  course  you 
couldn't.  No  one  ever  did  understand  another's 
case." 

"  I  don't  think  it's  that,  my  dear.  When  one  is 
in  love,  he  or  she  thinks  it's  a  peculiar  case.  And 
the  stronger  his  or  her  imagination,  the  more  pecu 
liar  seems  the  case.  But  when  it's  submitted  to  an 
outsider,  then  it  is  looked  at  in  the  clear  air,  not  in 
the  fog  of  self-delusion.  And  how  it  does  shrink !  " 

"  I  want  him  and  he  wants  me,"  said  Emily 
doggedly.  "  It  may  be  commonplace  and  ridicu 
lous,  but  it's  the  fact." 

"  Do  you  think  it  would  last  long  enough  to 
enable  him  to  get  a  divorce  ?  If  so,  he  can  do  that. 
There's  nothing  easier  nowadays  than  divorce. 
And  what  a  dreadful  blow  to  intrigue  that  has  been  ! 
It  doesn't  leave  either  party  a  leg  to  stand  on. 


A    "BETTER    SELF."          227 

Just  say  to  him:  'Yes,  I  love  you.  You  say  you 
love  me.  Go  and  get  a  divorce  and  then  perhaps 
I'll  marry  you.  But  if  not,  you'll  at  least  be  free 
from  daily  contact  with  the  wife  you  say  or  intimate 
that  you  loathe.'  It's  perfectly  simple.  The  chances 
are  you'll  never  see  him  again,  and  you  can  have  a 
laugh  at  yourself,  and  can  congratulate  yourself  on 
a  narrow  escape." 

"  Good  advice,  but  it  doesn't  fit  the  case." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  wish  to  marry  him  ?  " 

"  I  never  thought  of  it.  But  I'd  rather  not  discuss 
the  sentiment-side,  please.  Just  the  practical  side." 

"  But  there  isn't  any  practical  side.  Why  doesn't 
he  get  a  divorce  ?  " 

"  Because  he's  too  conspicuous.  There'd  be  an 
outcry  against  him.  I  don't  believe  he  could  get 
the  divorce." 

Emily  was  gazing  miserably  into  the  fire.  Joan 
looked  at  her  pityingly.  "  Oh,"  she  said  gently, 
dropping  the  tone  of  banter.  "  Yes — that  might 
be." 

"  And  it  seems  to  me  that  I  can't  give  him  up." 

"  But  why  do  you  debate  it  ?  Why  not  follow 
where  your  instinct  leads  ?  " 

"That's  just  it — where  does  my  instinct  lead? 
If — the — the  circumstances — I  can't  explain  them 
to  you — were  different  with  him  about — about  his 
family,  I'd  probably  reason  that  I  was  not  robbing 
any  one  and  would  try  to — to  be  happy.  But " 

She  halted  altogether  and,  when  she  continued, 
her  voice  was  low  and  she  was  looking  at  her  friend, 


228    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

pleadingly  yet  proudly  :  "  You  may  be  right.  We 
may  be  deceiving  ourselves.  But  I  do  not  think  so, 
Joan.  I  believe — and  you  do  too,  don't  you  ? — 
that  there  can  be  high  thoughts  in  common  between 
a  man  and  a  woman.  I'm  sure  they  can  care  in 
such  away  that  passion  becomes  like  the  fire,  fusing 
two  metals  into  one  stronger  and  better  than  either 
by  itself.  And  I  think — I  feel — yes,  it  seems  to 
me  I  know,  that  it  is  so  with  us.  Oh,  Joan,  he  and 
I  need  each  the  other." 

Joan  threw  away  her  cigarette  and  rested  her 
head  upon  her  arms,  GO  that  her  face  was  concealed 
from  Emily.  She  murmured  something. 

"  What  do  you  say,  Joan  ?  " 

"  Nothing — only — I  see  the  same  old,  the  eternal 
illusion.  And  what  a  fascinating  tenacious  illusion 
it  is,  Emmy  dear.  We  no  sooner  banish  it  in  one 
form  than  it  reappears  in  another." 

"  But— tell  me,  Joan— what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"  I,  advise  you  ?  No,  my  dear.  I  cannot.  I'd 
have  to  know  you  better  than  you  know  yourself  to 
give  you  advice.  You  have  grown  into  a  certain 
sort  of  woman,  with  certain  ideas  of  what  you  may 
and  what  you  may  not  do.  In  this  crisis  you'll 
Jfollow  the  path  into  which  your  whole  past  compels 
•[you.  And  while  I  don't  know  you  well  enough  to 
give  you  advice,  I  do  know  you  well  enough  to  feel 
sure  that  you'll  do  what  is  just  and  honourable.  If 
that  means  renunciation,  you  will  renounce  him. 
If  it  means  defiance,  you  will  defy.  If  it  means  a 
compromise,  why — I  don't  think  you'll  make  it, 


A    "BETTER    SELF."          229 

Emily,  unless  you  can  carry  your  secret  and  still 
feel  that  the  look  of  no  human  being  could  make 
you  flinch." 

"  Will  I  ?  "  Emily's  voice  was  dreary  and  doubt 
ful.  "  But,  when  one  is  starving,  he  doesn't  look  at 
the  Ten  Commandments  before  seizing  the  bread 
that  offers." 

"  Not  at  the  Ten  Commandments — no.  But  at 
the  one — 'Thou  shalt  not  kill  thy  self-respect.' 
And  don't  forget,  dear,  that  if  you  aren't  valuable 
to  the  world  without  love,  you'll  be  worth  very 
little  to  it  with  love." 

"  Joan's  Professor-"  came,  and  Emily  went  away 
to  bed. 

******* 

On  her  "  lazy  day  "  she  went  into  the  Park  and 
seated  herself  under  an  elm  high  among  the  rocks. 
Several  squirrels  were  playing  about  her  and  a  fat 
robin  was  hopping  round  and  round  in  a  wide  circle, 
pretending  to  be  interested  only  in  the  food  supply 
but  really  watching  her.  The  path  leading  to  her 
retreat  turned  abruptly  just  before  reaching  it,  then 
turned  again  for  the  descent.  She  did  not  hear  a 
footstep  but,  looking  up  as  she  was  shifting  her 
glance  from  one  page  of  her  novel  to  the  next,  she 
saw  a  child  before  her — a  tall  child  with  slim  legs 
and  arms,  and  a  body  that  looked  thin  but  strong 
under  a  white  dress.  She  had  a  pink  ribbon  at  her 
throat.  Her  hair  was  almost  golden  and  waved 
defiantly  around  and  away  from  a  large  pink  bow. 
Her  eyes  were  large  and  gray  and  solemn.  But  at 


230     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

each  corner  of  her  small  mouth  there  was  a  fun-lov 
ing  line  which  betrayed  possibilities  of  mischief  and 
appreciation  of  mischief.  This  suggestion  was 
confirmed  by  her  tilted  nose. 

Emily  smiled  at  this  vision  criss-crossed  with 
patches  of  sun  and  shadow.  But  the  vision  did  not 
smile  in  return. 

"  Good  morning,  Princess  Pink-and-white,"  said 
Emily.  "  Did  you  come  down  out  of  the  sky  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  the  child,  drawing  a  little  nearer. 
"And  my  name  is  not — not  that,  but  Mary.  Do 
you  live  here  ?  " 

"  Yes — this  is  my  home,"  answered  Emily.  "  I'm 
the  big  sister  of  the  squirrels  and  a  cousin  to  the 
robins." 

The  child  looked  at  her  carefully,  then  at  the 
squirrels  and  then  at  the  robin.  "  You  are  not 
truthful,"  she  said,  her  large  eyea  gazing  straight 
into  Emily's.  "  My  uncle  says  that  it  is  dishon'able 
not  to  tell  the  truth." 

"  Even  in  fun,  while  you  are  trying  to  make 
friends  with  Mary,  Princess  Pink-and-white  ?  "  Emily 
said  this  with  the  appearance  of  anxiety. 

"  It's  bad  not  to  always  tell  the  truth  to  young 
people."  She  came  still  nearer  and  stood  straight 
and  serious,  her  hands  behind  her.  "  My  uncle  says 
they  ought  to  hear  and  say  only  what  is  true." 

"Well  then — what  does  he  tell  you  about 
fairies?" 

"  He  doesn't  tell  me  about  them.  Mamma  says 
there  are  fairies,  but  he  says  he  has  never  seen  any. 


A    "BETTER    SELF."  231 

He  says  when  I  am  older  I  can  find  out  for  my 
self." 

"  And  what  do  the  other  children  say?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  There  aren't  any  other  children. 
There's  just  uncle  and  mamma  and  nurse.  And 
when  mamma  is  ill,  I  go  to  stay  with  nurse.  And 
I  only  go  out  with  uncle  or  mamma.'* 

"  That  is  very  nice,"  said  Emily,  taking  one  of 
the  small,  slender  hands  and  kissing  it.  But  in 
reality  she  thought  it  was  the  reverse  of  nice,  and 
very  lonely  and  sad. 

"  I  was  going  away  across  the  ocean  where  there 
are  lots  of  children  waiting  to  play  with  me.  But 
mamma — she  hadn't  been  sick  for  a  long,  long 
time — most  two  years,  I  think — and  then  she 
was  sick  again  and  I'm  not  to  go.  But  I'm  not 
sorry." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  I'm  a  great  comfort  to  uncle,  and  he  wasn't 
going  along.  And  I'm  glad  to  stay  with  him.  He 
says  I'm  a  great  comfort  to  him.  I  sing  to  him 
when  he  is  feeling  bad.  Would  you  like  for  me  to 
sing  to  you  ?  You  look  as  if  you  felt  bad." 

Emily  did  feel  like  tears.  It  was  not  what  the 
child  said,  but  her  air  of  aloneness,  of  ignorance  of 
the  pleasures  of  childhood  and  its  companionships. 
She  seemed  never  to  have  been  a  child  and  at  the 
same  time  to  be  far  too  much  a  child  for  her  years 
— apparently  the  result  of  an  attempt  by  grown 
persons  to  bring  her  up  in  a  dignified  way  without 
destroying  the  innocence  of  infancy. 


232     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

"Yes,  I  should  like  to  hear  you  sing,"  said 
Emily. 

The  child  sat,  folded  her  hands  in  her  lap  and  be 
gan  to  sing  in  French — a  slow,  religious  chant,  low 
and  with  an  intonation  of  ironic  humour.  As  Emily 
heard  the  words,  she  looked  at  "  Princess  Pink-and- 
White  "  in  amazement.  It  was  a  concert-hall  song, 
such  as  is  rarely  heard  outside  the  cafes  chantants 
of  the  boulevards — a  piece  of  subtle  mockery  with  a 
double  meaning.  The  child  sang  it  through,  then 
looked  at  her  for  approval. 

"  It's  in  French,"  was  all  Emily  could  say,  and 
the  child  with  quick  intuition  saw  that  something 
was  wrong. 

"  You  don't  like  it,"  she  said,  offended. 

"•You  sing  beautifully,"  replied  Emily.  She 
wished  to  ask  her  where  she  had  got  the  song,  but 
felt  that  it  would  be  prying. 

"  Mamma  taught  it  me  the  last  time  she  was  be 
ing  taken  ill.  It  was  hard  to  learn  because  I  do  not 
speak  French.  I  had  to  go  over  it  three  times. 
She  said  I  wasn't  to  sing  it  to  uncle.  But  I  thought 
you  might  like  it." 

"  No,  I  shouldn't  sing  it  to  uncle,  if  I  were  you," 
said  Emily. 

Just  then  the  child  rose  and  her  face  lighted  up. 
Emily  followed  her  glance  and  saw  Stilson  at  the 
turn  of  the  path,  standing  like  a  statue.  He  was 
looking  not  at  the  child,  but  at  her.  The  child  ran 
toward  him  and  he  put  his  hand  at  her  neck  and 
drew  her  close  to  him. 


A    "BETTER    SELF."  233 

"  Why,  how  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Stilson,"  said  Emily, 
cordially.  "  This  is  the  first  time  I've  seen  you  since 
I  was  leaving  for  Paris.  As  soon  as  I  came  back  I 
asked  for  you,  but  you  were  on  vacation.  And  I 
thought  you  were  still  away." 

Stilson  advanced  reluctantly,  a  queer  light  in 
his  keen,  dark-gray  eyes.  He  shook  hands  and 
seated  himself.  Mary  occupied  the  vacant  space 
on  the  bench  between  him  and  Emily,  spreading 
out  her  skirts  carefully  so  that  they  should  not  be 
mussed.  "  I  am  still  idling,"  said  Stilson.  "  I  hate 
hotels  and  I  loathe  mosquitoes.  Besides,  I  think  if 
I  ever  got  beyond  the  walls  of  this  prison  I'd  run 
away  and  never  return." 

"  So  you  too  grow  tired  of  your  work  ?  "  said 
Emily.  "Yet  you  are  editor-in-chief  now,  and — 
Oh,  I  should  think  it  would  be  fascinating." 

"  It  would  have  been  a  few  years  ago.  But 
everything  comes  late,  One  has  worked  so  hard 
for  it  that  one  is  too  exhausted  to  enjoy  it.  And 
it  means  work  and  care — always  more  and  more 
work  and  care.  But,  pardon  me.  I'm  in  one  of  my 
depressed  moods.  And  I  didn't  expect  any  one — 
you — to  surprise  me  in  it." 

Emily  looked  at  him,  her  eyes  giving,  and  demand 
ing,  sympathy.  "  I  often  wish  that  life  would  offer 
something  worth  having,  not  as  a  free  gift — I 
shouldn't  ask  that,  and  not  at  a  bargain  even,  but 
just  at  a  fair  price." 

"  I'm  surprised  to  find  such  parsimony  in  one  so 
young — it's  unnatural."  Stilson's  expression  and 


234    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

tone  were  good-humoured  cynicism.  "  Why,  at  your 
age,  with  your  wealth — -youth  is  always  rich — you 
ought  never  to  look  at  or  think  of  price  marks." 

"  But  I  can't  help  it.  I  come  from  New  Eng 
land." 

"  Ah  !  Then  it's  stranger  still.  With  the  aid  of 
a  New  England  conscience  you  ought  to  cheat  life 
out  of  the  price." 

"  I  do  try,  but — "  Emily  sighed — "  I'm  always 
caught  and  made  pay  the  more  heavily." 

Stilson  studied  her  curiously.  He  was  smiling 
with  some  mockery  as  he  said.  "  You  must  be 
cursed  with  a  sense  of  duty.  That  sticks  to  one 
closer  than  his  shadow.  The  shadow  leaves  with 
the  sunshine.  But  duty  is  there,  daylight  or  dark." 

"  Especially  dark,"  said  Emily.  "  What  a  slavery 
it  is  !  To  tramp  the  dusty,  stony  highway  close 
beside  gardens  that  are  open  and  inviting ;  and  not 
to  be  able  to  enter." 

His  strong,  handsome  face  became  almost  stern. 
"  I  don't  agree  with  you.     Suppose  that  you  entered  | 
the  gardens,  would  they  seem  good  if  you  looked  j 
back  and  saw  your  better  self   lying  dead   in    the 
dust  ?  "     He  seemed  to  be  talking  to  himself  not  to 
her. 

"  But  don't  you  ever  wish  to  be  free?"  she 
asked. 

"  I  am  free — absolutely  free,"  he  said  proudly. 
''  One  does  not  become  free  by  license,  by  cringing 
before  the  stupidest,  the  most  foolish  impulses  there 
are  in  him.  I  think  he  becomes  free  by  refusing 


A    "BETTER    SELF."          235 

Ito  degrade  himself  and  violate  the  law  of  his  own 
nature." 

"  But— What  is  stupid  and  what  isn't  ?  " 
"  No  one  could  answer  that  in  a  general  way.    All 
I  can  say  is — "  Stilson  seemed  to  her  to  be  looking 
her  through  and   through.      "  Did  you    ever  have 
any  doubt  in  any  particular  case  ?  " 

Emily  hesitated,  her  eyes  shifting,  a  faint  flush 
rising  to  her  cheeks.     "  Yes,"  she  said. 
|       "  Then  that  very  doubt  told  you  what  was  foolish 
1  and  what  intelligent.     Didn't  it?" 

Stilson  was  not  looking  at  her  now  and  she 
studied  his  face — mature  yet  young,  haughty  yet 
kind.  Strong  passions,  good  and  bad,  had  evidently 
contended,  were  still  contending,  behind  that  inter 
esting  mask. 

"  No,"  he   went  on,  "  if  ever  you  make  up  your 

mind  to  do  wrong," — His  voice  was  very  gentle  and 

seemed  to  her  to  have  an  undercurrent  of  personal 

appeal  in  it — "  don't  lie  to  yourself.     Just  look  at 

the  temptation  frankly,  and  at  the  price.     And,  if 

you  will  or  must,  why,  pay  and  make  off  with  your 

paste  diamonds  or   gold   brick   or  whatever   little 

I  luxury  of  that  kind  you've  gone  into  Mr.  License's 

ishop  to  buy.     What  is  the  use  of  lying  to  one's  self  ? 

We  are  poor  creatures  indeed,  it  seems  to  me,  if 

I  there  isn't  at  least  one  person  whom  we  dare  face 

*  with  the  honest  truth." 

Emily  had  always  had  a  profound  respect  for 
Stilson.  She  knew  his  abilities  ;  and,  while  Marlowe 
had  usually  praised  his  friend  with  discreet  reserva- 


236    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

tions,  she  had  come  to  know  that  Marlowe  regarded 
him  as  little,  if  at  all,  short  of  a  genius  in  his  power 
of  leading  and  directing  men.  As  he  talked  to  her, 
restating  the  familiar  fundamentals  of  practical 
morals,  she  felt  a  strong  force  at  work  upon  her. 
Like  Stanhope  he  impressed  her  with  his  great  per 
sonal  power ;  but  wholly  unlike  him,  Stilson  seemed 
to  be  using  that  power  to  an  end  which  attracted 
her  without  setting  the  alarm  bells  of  reason  and 
prudence  to  ringing. 

"  I'm  rather  surprised  to  find  you  so  conven 
tional,"  said  Emily,  by  way  of  resenting  the  effect 
he  and  his  "  sermon  "  were  having  upon  her. 

"  Conventional  ?  "  Stilson  lifted  his  eyebrows 
and  gave  her  an  amused,  satirical  look.  "  Am  I  ? 
Then  the  world  must  have  changed  suddenly.  No, 
I  wasn't  pleading  for  any  particular  code  of  conduct. 
Make  up  your  code  to  suit  yourself.  All  I  venture 
to  insist  is  that  you  must  live  up  to  your  own  code, 
whatever  it  is.  Be  a  law  unto  yourself  ;  but,  when 
you  have  been,  don't  become  a  law  breaker." 

"  Do  you  think  mamma  will  be  well  enough  for 
me  to  go  home  to-morrow  ?  "  It  was  the  little  girl, 
weary  of  being  unnoticed  and  bursting  into  the  con 
versation. 

Stilson  started  as  if  he  had  forgotten  that  she 
was  there.  "  Perhaps — yes — dear,"  he  said  and  rose 
at  once.  "We  must  be  going." 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Mary.  Emily  took  her  hand 
and  kissed  it.  But  the  child,  with  a  quaint  min 
gling  of  shyness  and  determination,  put  up  her  face 


A    "BETTER    SELF."          237 

to  be  kissed,  and  adjusted  her  lips  to  show  where 
she  wished  the  kiss  to  be  placed.  "  Good-bye,"  she 
repeated.  "  I  know  who  you  are  now.  You  are  the 
Violet  Lady  Uncle  Robert  puts  in  the  stories  he 
tells  me." 

"  Come,  Mary,"  said  Stilson  severely.  And  he 
lifted  his  hat,  but  not  his  eyes,  and  bowed  very 
formally. 

Emily  sat  staring  absently  at  the  point  at  which 
they  had  disappeared. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

TO  THE  TEST. 

STANHOPE  plodded  dully  through  his 
routine — listening  to  reports,  directing  his 
assistants,  arranging  services  in  the 
church  and  chapels,  dictating  letters.  A 
score  of  annoying  details  were  thrust  at  him 
for  discussion  and  settlement — details  with  which 
helpers  with  a  spark  of  initiative  would  never  have 
bothered  him.  His  wife,  out  of  temper,  came  to 
nag  him  about  expenditures.  His  son  wrote  from 
college  for  an  extra  allowance,  alleging  a  necessity 
which  his  father  at  once  knew  was  mythical. 
Another  letter  was  from  a  rich  parishioner,  taking 
him  to  task  for  last  Sunday's  sermon  as  "  socialistic, 
anarchistic  in  its  tendency,  and  of  the  sort  which 
makes  it  increasingly  difficult  for  conservative  men 
of  property  to  support  your  church."  At  luncheon 
there  were  two  women  friends  of  his  wife  and  they 
sickened  him  with  silly  compliments,  shot  poisoned 
arrows  at  the  reputations  of  their  friends,  and  talked 
patronisingly  of  their  "  worthy  poor."  After 
luncheon — more  of  the  morning's  routine,  made 
detestable  by  the  self-complacent  vanity  of  one  of 
his  stupidest  curates  and  by  the  attempts  of  the 
homeliest  deaconess  to  flirt  with  him  under  the  mask 


TO    THE    TEST.  239 

of  seeking  "  spiritual  counsel."  And  finally,  when 
his  nerves  were  unstrung,  a  demand  from  a  tedious 
old  woman  that  he  come  to  her  bedside  im 
mediately  as  she  was  dying — demands  of  that  kind 
his  sense  of  duty  forbade  him  to  deny. 

"  This  is  the  third  time  within  the  month,"  he 
said  peevishly.  "  Before,  she  was  simply  hysteri 
cal."  And  he  scowled  at  Schaffer,  the  helper  to 
the  delicatessen  merchant  in  the  basement  of  the 
tenement  where  the  old  woman  lived. 

"  I  think  maybe  there's  a  little  something  in  it 
this  time,"  ventured  Schaffer,  his  tone  expressing 
far  less  doubt  than  his  words. 

"  I'll  follow  you  in  a  few  minutes,"  said  Stanhope, 
adding  to  himself,  "and  I'll  soon  be  out  of  all  this." 

He  did  not  know  how  or  when — "  after  Evelyn  is 
married,"  he  thought  vaguely — but  he  felt  that  he 
was  practically  gone.  He  would  leave  his  wife  all 
the  property ;  and  he  and  Emily  would  go  away 
somehow  and  somewhere  and  begin  life — not  anew, 
but  actually  begin.  "  I  shall  be  myself  at  last,"  he 
thought,  "  speaking  the  truth,  earning  my  living  in 
the  sweat  of  my  face,  instead  of  in  the  sweat  of  my 
soul."  As  he  came  out  of  the  house  he  looked  up 
at  the  church — the  enormous  steepled  mass  of 
masonry,  tapering  heavenward.  "  Pointing  to 
empty  space,"  he  thought,  "  tricking  the  thoughts 
of  men  away  from  the  street  and  the  soil  where 
their  brothers  are.  Yes,  I  shall  no  longer  court  the 
rich  to  get  money  for  the  poor.  I  shall  no  longer 
fling  the  dust  of  dead  beliefs  into  the  eyes  of  the 


240    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

poor  to  blind  them  to  injustice."  He  strode  along, 
chin  up,  eyes  only  for  his  dreams.  He  did  not  note 
the  eager  and  respectful  bows  of  the  people  in  the 
doorways,  block  after  block.  He  did  not  note  that 
between  the  curtains  of  the  dives,  where  painted 
women  lay  in  wait  for  a  chance  to  leer  and  lure, 
forms  shrank  back  and  faces  softened  as  he  passed. 

Into  the  miserable  Orchard  street  tenement ; 
through  the  darkness  of  the  passageway ;  into  a 
mouldy  court,  damp  and  foul  even  in  that  winter 
weather;  up  four  ill-smelling  stairways  with  wall 
paper  and  plastering  impatient  for  summer  that 
they  might  begin  to  sweat  and  rot  and  fall  again  ;  in 
at  a  low  door — the  entrance  to  a  filthy,  unaired  den 
where  only  the  human  animal  of  all  the  animal 
kingdom  could  long  exist. 

The  stove  was  red-hot  and  two  women  in  tattered, 
grease-bedaubed  calico  were  sitting  at  it.  They 
were  young  in  years,  but  their  abused  and  neglected 
bodies  were  already  worn  out.  One  held  a  child 
with  mattered  eyes  and  sores  hideously  revealed 
through  its  thin  hair.  The  other  was  about  to 
bring  into  the  world  a  being  to  fight  its  way  up  with 
the  rats  and  the  swarming  roaches. 

In  the  corner  was  a  bed  which  had  begun  its 
career  well  up  in  the  social  scale  and  had  slowly 
descended  until  it  was  now  more  than  ready  for  the 
kindling-box.  Upon  it  lay  a  heap  of  rags  swathing 
the  skeleton  of  what  had  once  been  a  woman,  Her 
head  was  almost  bald.  Its  few  silver-white  hairs 
were  tied  tightly  into  a  nut-like  knot  by  a  rusty 


TO    THE    TEST.  241 

black  string.  Her  skin,  pale  yellow  and  speckled 
with  dull  red  blotches,  was  drawn  directly  over  the 
bones  and  cartilages  of  her  skull  and  face,  and  was 
cracked  into  a  network  of  seams  and  wrinkles. 
The  shapeless  infoldings  of  her  mouth  were  sunk 
deep  in  the  hollow  between  nose  and  chin.  Her 
hands,  laid  upon  the  covers  at  which  her  fingers 
picked  feebly,  had  withered  to  bones  and  bunches 
of  cords  thrust  into  two  ill-fitting  gloves  of  worn- 
out  parchment. 

As  Stanhope  entered,  the  women  at  the  stove 
rose,  showed  their  worse  than  toothless  gums  in  a 
momentary  smile,  then  resumed  the  doleful  look 
which  is  humanity's  universal  counterfeit  for  use  at 
death-beds.  They  awkwardly  withdrew  and  the 
old  woman  opened  her  eyes — large  eyes,  faded  and 
dim  but,  with  the  well-shaped  ears  close  against  her 
head,  the  sole  reminders  of  the  comeliness  that  had 
been. 

She  turned  her  eyes  toward  the  broken-backed 
chair  at  the  head  of  her  bed.  He  sat  and  leaning 
over  put  his  hand — big  and  strong  and  vital — upon 
one  of  her  hands. 

"  What  can  I  do,  Aunt  Albertina  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I'm  leaving,  Doctor  Stanhope."  There  was  a 
trace  of  a  German  accent  in  that  hardly  human 
croak. 

"  Well,  Aunt  Albertina,  you  are  ready  to  go  or 
ready  to  stay.  There  is  nothing  to  fear  either  way." 

"  Look  in  that  box  behind  you — there.  The  let 
ters.  Yes."  He  sat  again,  holding  in  his  hand  a 


242     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

package  of  letters,  yellow  where  they  were  not 
black.  "  Destroy  them."  The  old  woman  was 
looking  at  them  longingly.  Then  she  closed  her 
eyes  and  tried  to  lift  her  head.  "  Under  the  pil 
low,"  she  muttered.  "  Take  it  out."  He  reached 
under  the  slimy  pillow  and  drew  forth  a  battered 
embossed-leather  case.  "  Look,"  she  said. 

He  opened  it.  On  the  one  side  was  the  picture 
of  a  man  in  an  officer's  uniform  with  decorations 
across  his  breast — a  handsome  man,  haughty-look 
ing,  cruel-looking.  On  the  other  side  was  the  pic 
ture  of  a  woman — a  round,  weak,  pretty  face,  a 
mouth  longing  for  kisses,  sentimental  eyes,  a  great 
deal  of  fair  hair,  -graceful,  rounded  shoulders. 

"  That  was  I,"  croaked  the  old  woman.  He 
looked  at  that  head  in  the  bed,  that  face,  that  neck 
with  the  tendons  and  bones  outstanding  and  mak 
ing  darker-brown  gullies  between. 

"  Yes — I,"  she  said,  "  and  not  thirty  years  ago." 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  her  ringers  picked  at  the 
covers.  "  Do  you  remember,"  she  began  again — 
"  the  day  you  first  saw  me  ?  " 

He  recalled  it.  She  was  wandering  along  the 
gutter  of  Essex  Street,  mumbling  to  herself,  stoop 
ing  now  and  then  to  pick  up  a  cigar  butt,  a  bit  of 
paper,  a  rag,  and  slip  it  into  a  sack. 

"  Yes,  Aunt  Albertina — I  remember." 

"  You  stopped  and  shook  hands  with  me  and 
asked  me  to  come  to  a  meeting,  and  gave  me  a 
card.  I  never  came.  I  was  too  busy — too  busy 
drinking  myself  to  death."  She  paused  and  mut- 


TO    THE    TEST.  243 

tered,  in  German,  "  Ach,  Gott,  I  thought  I  would 
never  accomplish  it.  But  at  last — "  Then  she 
went  on  in  English,  "  But  I  remembered  you.  I 
asked  about  you.  They  all  knew  you.  *  The  giant  * 
they  call  you.  You  are  so  strong.  They  lean  on 
you — all  these  people.  You  do  not  know  them  or 
see  them  or  feel  them,  but  they  lean  on  you." 

"  But  I  am  weak,  Aunt  Albertina.  I  am  a  giant 
with  a  pigmy  soul — a  little  soul." 

"  Yes,  I  know  what  pigmy  means."  The  wrinkles 
swirled  and  crackled  in  what  was  meant  to  be  a 
smile.  "  I  had  a  '  von '  in  my  name  in  Germany, 
and  perhaps  something  before  it — but  no  matter. 
Yes,  you  are  weak.  So  was  he — the  man  in  the 
picture — and  I  also.  We  tempted  each  other.  He 
left  his  post,  his  wife,  all.  We  came  to  America. 
He  died.  I  was  outcast.  I  danced  in  a  music-hall 
— what  did  I  care  what  became  of  me  when  he  was 
gone  ?  Then  I  sat  at  the  little  tables  with  the  men, 
and  learned  what  a  good  friend  drink  is.  And  so — • 

down,  down,  down "  she  paused  to  shut  her  eyes 

and  pick  at  the  covers. 

"  But,"  she  went  on,  "  drink  always  with  me  as 
my  friend  to  make  me  forget,  to  make  me  content 
wherever  I  was — the  gutter,  the  station-house,  the 
dance-hall.  If  he  could  have  seen  me  among  the 
sailors,  tossing  me  round,  tearing  at  my  clothes, 
putting  quarters  in  my  stockings — for  drinks  after- 
wards — drinks  !  " 

There  was  a  squirming  among  the  rags  where  her 
old  bones  were  hidden.  Stanhope  shuddered  and 


244    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

the  sweat  stood  in  beads  on  his  white  face.  "  But 
that  is  over,  and  you've  repented  long  ago,"  he  said 
hurriedly,  eager  to  get  away. 

"Repent?"  The  old  woman  looked  at  him  with 
jeering  smile.  "  Not  I !  Why  ?  With  drink  one 
.thing's  as  good  as  another,  one  bed  as  another,  one 
man  as  another.  The  idealissmus  soon  passes. 
Ach,  how  we  used  to  talk  of  our  souls — Gunther 
and  I.  Souls !  Yes,  we  were  made  for  each  other. 
But — he  died,  and  life  must  be  lived.  Yes,  I  know 
what  pigmy  means.  I  had  a  von  in  my  name  over 
there  and  something  in  front.  But  no  soul — just  a 
body." 

"  What  else  can  I  do  for  you,  Aunt  Albertina  ?  " 
He  spoke  loudly  as  her  mind  was  evidently  wan 
dering. 

"  Be  strong.  They  lean  on  you.  No,  I  mean  I 
lean  on  you.  The  letters  and  the  pictures — destroy 
them.  Yes,  Gunther  and  I  had  von  in  our  names 
— but  no  soul — just  youth  and  love " 

He  went  to  the  stove,  lifted  the  lid,  and  tossed 
in  the  letters  and  the  old  case.  As  he  was  putting 
the  lid  on  again  he  could  see  the  case  shrivelling, 
and  the  flame  with  its  black  base  crawling  over 
sheets  closely  written  in  a  clear,  beautiful  foreign 
handwriting. 

"  They  are  destroyed,  Aunt  Albertina.  Is  that 
all?" 

"All.  No  religion — not  to-day,  I  thank  you. 
Yes,  you  are  strong — but  no  soul,  only  a  body." 

He  went  out  and  sent  the  two  women.     He  ex- 


TO    THE    TEST.  245 

paneled  his  lungs  to  the  tainted  air  of  Orchard 
Street.  It  seemed  fresh  and  pure  to  him.  "  Horri 
ble  !  "  he  thought,  "  I  shall  soon  be  out  of  all 
this- 

Out  of  it  ?  He  stopped  short  in  the  street  and 
looked  wildly  around.  Out  of  itl  Out  of  what? — 
out  of  life?  If  not,  how  could  he  escape  respon 
sibility,  and  consequences?  Consequences!  He 
strode  along,  the  children  toddling  or  crawling 
swiftly  aside  to  escape  his  tread.  And  as  he  strode 
the  word  "Consequences!"  clanged  and  banged 
against  the  walls  of  his  brain  like  the  clapper  of 
a  mighty  bell. 

At  the  steps  of  his  house  a  woman  and  a  man 
tried  to  halt  him.  He  brushed  them  aside,  went 
up  the  steps  two  at  a  time,  let  himself  in,  and  shut 
himself  in  his  study. 

Why  had  he  not  seen  it  before  ?  To  shiver  with 
the  lightning  of  lust  the  great  tree  of  the  church, 
the  shelter  and  hope  of  these  people ;  to  tempt  fate 
to  vengeance  not  upon  himself,  but  upon  Emily ;  to 
cover  his  children  with  shame ;  to  come  to  her,  a 
wreck,  a  ruin  ;  to  hang  a  millstone  about  her  neck 
and  bid  her  swim  !— "  And  I  called  this— love  !  " 

******* 

At  eight  o'clock  that  evening  Emily  sat  waiting 
for  him.  "  Shall  I  hate  him  as  soon  as  I  see  him  ? 
Or  shall  I  love  him  so  that  I'll  not  care  for  shame 
or  sin  ?  "  The  bell  rang  and  she  started  up,  trem 
bling.  The  maid  was  already  at  the  front  door. 

"  Nancy  !  "  she  called  ;  then  stood  rigid  and  cold, 


246      A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

holding  the  portiere  with  one  hand  and  averting 
her  face. 

"Yes,  mum." 

"  If  it  is  any  one  for  me " 

She  hesitated  again.  She  could  see  herself  in  the 
long  mirror  between  the  windows.  She  drew  herself 
up  and  sent  a  smile,  half-triumphant,  half-derisive, 
at  her  image,  "  Say  I'm  not  at  home,"  she  ended. 

The  door  opened,  there  was  a  pause,  then  it 
closed.  Nancy  entered,  "Only  a  note,  mum." 
She  held  it  out  and  Emily  took  it — Stanhope's 
writing.  She  tore  it  open  and  read  : 

"  I  have  a  presentiment  that  you,  too,  have  seen  the  truth. 
We  may  not  go  the  journey  together.  I  have  come  to  my 
senses.  If  it  was  love  that  we  offered  each  the  other,  then  we  do 
well  to  strangle  the  monster  before  it  strangles  us,  and  tramples 
into  the  mire  all  that  each  of  us  has  done  for  good  thus  far. 

I — and  you,  too — feel  like  one  who  dreams  that  he  is  about 
to  seize  delight  and  awakens  to  find  that  he  was  leaping  from  a 
window  to  destruction. 

This  is  not  renunciation.     It  is  salvation. 

Evelyn  tells  me  she  is  to  see  you  to-morrow.  I  am  glad  that 
you  and  my  daughter  are  friends. 

She  read  the  note  again,  and,  after  a  long  inter 
val,  a  third  time.  Then  she  bent  slowly  and  laid  it 
upon  the  coals.  She  sat  in  a  low  chair,  watched 
the  paper  curl  into  a  tremulous  ash,  which  presently 
drifted  up  the  chimney.  She  was  not  conscious 
that  there  was  any  thought  in  her  mind.  She  was 
conscious  only  of  an  enormous  physical  and  mental 
relief. 


TO    THE    TEST.  247 

"  I  must  go  to  bed,"  she  said  aloud.  She  hardly 
touched  the  pillow  before  she  was  sound  asleep — 
the  sleep  of  ^exhaustion,  of  content,  of  the  battle 
won.  After  several  hours  she  awakened.  "  I'm  so 
glad  my  '  better  self '  told  Nancy  to  say  I  wasn't 
at  home,"  she  thought.  "  That  makes  me  know 
that  I  was — what  was  I  ?  "  But  before  she  could 
answer  she  was  again  asleep. 

The  next  morning  Joan  at  breakfast  suddenly 
lifted  her  eyes  from  her  newspaper  and  her  coffee, 
listened  and  smiled.  Emily  was  singing  at  her  bath. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

MR.  GAMMELL  PRESUMES. 

MR.  WAKEMAN,  under  whom  she  had 
been  working  comfortably,  was  now 
displaced  by  a  Mr.  Gammell,  whom 
she   had  barely  seen  and  of  whom 
she  had  heard    alarming  tales.     He 
had  been  made  City  Editor  when  Stilson  was  pro 
moted.     Tireless  and  far-sighted  and  insatiable  as  a 
news-gatherer,    he  drove  those  under   him    "  as    if 
eating  and  sleeping  had  been  abolished,"    one    of 
them  complained.     Bnt   he    made   the   Democrat's 
local  news  the  best  in  New  York,  and  this  gradually 
impressed  the   public   and    raised    the   circulation. 
Gammell  was  a  sensationalist — "  the  yellowest  yet," 
the  reporters  called  him — and  Stilson  despised  him. 
But   Stilson  was   too    capable  a   journalist  not  to 
appreciate   his   value.       He   encouraged   him    and 
watched   him    closely,    taking   care   to   keep   from 
print  the  daily  examples  of  his  reckless  "  overzeal." 
As   the   Sunday  edition  ought   to   be  the  most 
profitable  issue  of  a  big  newspaper,  the  proprietors 
decided  to  transfer  Gammell  to  it,  after  cautioning 
him  to  remember  Stilson's  training  and  do  nothing 
to  destroy  the  "  character  "  of  the  paper.     Gammell 
began  with  a  "  shake-up  "  of  his  assistants.     Emily, 
just    returned    from   a   midsummer   vacation,   was 


MR.   GAMMELL    PRESUMES.    249 

opening  her  desk,  when  another  woman  of  the 
Sunday  staff,  Miss  Venable,  whom  she  had  never 
seen  at  the  office  thus  early  before,  began  to  tell 
her  the  dire  news.  "  He's  good-looking  and  polite," 
she  said,  "  but  he  has  no  respect  for  feelings  and  no 
consideration  about  the  quantity  of  work.  He 
treats  us  as  if  we  were  so  many  machines." 

"  That  isn't  strange  or  startling,  is  it  ?  "  said 
Emily  indifferently.  "  He's  like  most  successful 
men.  I  always  feared  Mr.  Wakeman  was  too  easy 
going,  too  good  to  last.  I'm  surprised  that  there 
hasn't  been  a  change  before." 

"Just  wait  till  you've  had  an  experience  with 
him.  He  told  me — he  called  me  in  this  morning 
and  said  with  a  polite  grin — what  a  horrid  grin  he 
has ! — that  he  was  pained  that  I  did  not  like  my 
position  on  the  Sunday  staff.  And  when  I  pro 
tested  that  I  did,  he  said,  '  It's  good  of  you  to  say 
so,  Miss  Venable,  but  your  work  tells  a  truth  which 
you  are  too  considerate  of  me  to  speak.'  And  then 
he  went  on  to  show  that  he  has  been  sneaking  and 
spying  on  me  about  reading  novels  in  office  hours 
and  staying  out  too  long  at  lunch  time.  Think  of 
that  ! " 

"  He  may  be  watching  you  now,"  suggested 
Emily. 

"  No — he's — good  gracious,  there  he  is !  "  and  she 
fled  to  her  desk. 

Emily  looked  round  and  saw  a  notably  slender, 
pale  man  of  middle  height  with  the  stoop  of  a 
student  and  restless,  light-brown  eyes.  He  was 


250    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

walking  rapidly,  glancing  from  side  to  side  and 
nervously  swinging  his  keys  by  their  chain.  He 
stopped  at  her  desk  and  smiled — agreeably  Emily 
thought. 

"  Miss  Bromfield?"  he  said. 

"  Yes.     And  you  are  Mr.  Gammell  ?  " 

"  I  am  that  brute — that  ogre — that  Simon  Le- 
gree,"  he  replied,  with  a  satirical  smile  which  barely 
altered  the  .  line  of  his  thin,  pale  lips  under  his 
small  moustache.  "  Will  you  come  into  my  office, 
please — at  your  leisure?"  Emily  thought  she  had 
never  heard  a  polite  phrase  sound  so  cynically 
hollow. 

She  rose  and  followed  him.  He  began  at  once 
and  talked  swiftly,  now  cutting  up  sheets  of  blank 
paper  with  a  huge  pair  of  shears,  now  snapping  the 
fingers  of  one  hand  against  the  knuckles  of  the 
other,  now  twitching  his  eyes,  now  ruffling  and 
smoothing  his  hair.  He  showed  that  he  had  gone 
through  her  work  for  several  months  past  and  that 
he  knew  both  her  strong  points  and  her  defects.  He 
gave  her  a  clear  conception  first  of  what  he  did  not 
want,  then  of  what  he  did  want. 

As  they  talked  she  became  uncomfortable.  She 
admired  his  ability,  but  she  began  to  dislike  his 
personality.  And  she  soon  understood  why.  He 
was  showing  more  and  more  interest  in  her  personal 
appearance  and  less  and  less  interest  in  her  work. 
Like  all  good-looking  women,  Emily  was  too  used 
to  the  sort  of  glances  he  was  giving  her  to  feel  or 
pretend  to  feel  deep  resentment.  But  it  made  her 


MR.  GAMMELL    PRESUMES.     251 

uneasy  to  reflect  on  what  those  glances  from  a  man 
in  his  position  and  of  his  audacity  portended.  "  I 
shall  have  trouble  with  him,"  she  was  thinking,  be 
fore  they  had  been  together  half  an  hour.  And  she 
became  formal  and  studied  in  her  courtesy.  But 
this  seemed  to  have  not  this  slightest  effect  upon 
him. 

"  However,"  he  said  in  conclusion,  "  don't  take 
what  I've  been  saying  too  seriously.  You  may  do 
as  you  please.  I'm  sure  I'll  like  whatever  you  do. 
And  if  you  feel  that  you  have  too  much  work,  just 
tell  me  and  I'll  turn  it  over  to  someone  who  was 
made  to  drudge." 

He  was  at  her  desk  several  times  during  the  day. 
The  last  time  he  brought  a  bundle  of  German  and 
French  illustrated  papers  and  pointed  out  to  her  in 
one  of  them  a  doubtful  picture  and  the  still  more 
doubtful  jest  printed  underneath.  He  watched  her 
closely.  She  looked  and  read  without  a  change  of 
colour  or  expression.  "  I  don't  think  we  would 
reprint  it,"  she  said  indifferently,  turning  the  page. 

As  he  walked  away  she  had  an  internal  shudder 
of  repulsion.  "  How  crude  he  is !  "  she  thought. 
"  He  has  evidently  been  well  educated  and  well 
bred.  Yet  he  can't  distinguish  among  people.  He 
thinks  they're  all  cut  from  the  same  pattern,  each 
for  some  special  use  of  his.  Yes,  I  shall  have 
trouble  with  him — and  that  soon." 

He  hung  about  her  desk,  passing  and  repassing, 
often  pausing  and  getting  as  near  as  possible  to  her, 
compelling  her  pointedly  to  move.  She  soon  had 


252      A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

his  character  from  his  own  lips.  She  was  discussing 
with  him  a  "  human  interest  "  story  from  a  Colorado 
paper — about  love  and  self-sacrifice  in  a  lone 
miner's  hut  far  away  among  the  mountains.  "  That 
will  catch  the  crowd,"  he  said.  "  We'll  spread  it 
for  a  page  with  a  big,  strong  picture." 

"  Yes,  it's  a  beautiful  story,"  said  she.  "  No  one 
could  fail  to  be  touched  by  it." 

"  It's  easy  to  make  the  mob  weep,"  he  answered 
with  a  sneer.  "  What  fools  they  are  !  As  n  there 
was  anything  in  that  sort  of  slush." 

Emily  was  simply  listening,  was  not  even  looking 
comment. 

"  I  don't  suppose  that  anybody  ever  unselfishly 
cared  for  anybody  else  since  the  world  began,"  he 
went  on.  "  It's  always  vanity  and  self-interest. 
The  difference  between  the  mob  and  the  intelligent 
few  is  that  the  mob  is  hypocritical  and  timid,  while 
intelligent  people  frankly  reach  out  for  what  they 
want." 

"  Your  scneme  of  life  has  at  least  the  merit  of 
directness,"  said  Emily,  turning  away  to  go  to  her 
desk. 

On  the  plea  that  he  wished  to  discuss  work  with 
her  he  practically  compelled  her  to  dine  with  him 
two  or  three  times  a  week.  While  his  lips  were 
busy  with  adroit  praises  of  her  ability  his  eyes 
were  appealing  to  her  vanity  as  a  woman — and  he 
was  not  so  unskilful  at  that  mode  of  attack  as  he 
had  seemed  at  first.  He  exploited  her  articles  in 
the  Sunday  magazine,  touching  them  up  himself 


MR.  GAMMELL    PRESUMES.    253 

and — as  she  could  not  but  see — greatly  improving 
them.  He  asked  Stilson  to  raise  her  salary,  and  it 
was  done. 

She  did  not  discourage  him.  She  was  passive, 
maintaining  her  business-like  manner.  But  after 
leaving  him  she  always  had  a  feeling  of  depression 
and  self-disapproval.  She  liked  the  display  of  her 
work,  she  liked  the  sense  of  professional  importance 
which  he  gave  her,  she  did  not  dislike  his  flatteries. 
She  tried  to  force  herself  to  look  at  the  truth,  to 
see  that  all  he  said  and  did  arose  from  the  basest  of 
motives,  unredeemed  by  a  single  trace  of  an  adorn 
ment  of  sentiment,  But,  though  she  pretended  to 
herself  that  she  understood  him  perfectly,  her 
vanity  was  insidiously  aiding  her  strong  sense  of  the 
politic  to  draw  her  on.  "What  can  I  do?"  she 
pleaded  to  herself.  "  I  must  earn  my  living.  I 
must  assume,  as  long  as  I  possibly  can,  that  every 
thing  is  all  right." 

While  she  was  thus  drifting,  helpless  to  act  and 
desperately  trying  to  hope  that  a  crisis  was  not 
coming,  she  met  Stilson  one  morning  in  the 
entrance-hall  of  the  Democrat  Building.  As  always, 
his  sombre  expression  lighted  and  he  stopped  her. 

"  How  are  you  getting  on  with  Gammell  ?  "  he 
asked,  in  his  voice  that  exactly  suited  the  resolute 
set  of  his  jaw  and  the  aggressive  forward  thrust  of 
his  well-shaped  head. 

At  Gam m ell's  name  she  became  embarrassed, 
almost  ashamed.  No  one  knew  better  than  she  what 
a  powerful  effect  Stilson  had  upon  sensitive  people 


254    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

in  making  them  guiltily  self-conscious  if  there  was 

reason    for  it.     She  could   not   help   dropping   her 

eyes,  and  her  confusion  was  not  decreased  by  the 

fear  that  he  would  misconstrue  her  manner  into  a 

-'confession   worse    than   the   truth.     But    she   was 

jshowing  less  of  her  mind  than  she  thought. 

"  Oh — splendidly,"  she  replied.  "  I  like  him  much 
better  than  at  first.  He  makes  us  work  and  that 
has  been  well  for  me." 

"  Urn— yes."  He  looked  relieved.  "  And  I  think 
it  excellent  work.  Good  morning." 

Emily  gazed  after  his  tall  strong  figure  with  the 
expression  that  is  particularly  good  to  see  in  eyes 
that  are  looking  unobserved  at  another's  back.  "  He 
knows  Gammell,"  she  thought,  "  and  had  an  idea  he 
might  be  annoying  me.  He  wished  to  give  me  a 
chance  to  show  that  I  needed  aid,  if  I  did.  What 
a  strange  man — and  how  much  of  a  man  !  " 

When  she  saw  Gammell  half  an  hour  later,  she 
unconsciously  brought  herself  up  sharply.  She  was 
as  distant  as  the  circumstances  of  their  business 
relations  permitted.  But  Gammell,  deceived  by  her 
former  tolerance  and  by  his  vanity  and  his  hopes, 
thought  she  was  practising  another  form  of  coquetry 
upon  him.  As  she  retreated,  he  pursued.  The 
first  time  they  were  alone,  he  put  his  arm  about  her 
and  kissed  her. 

Emily  had  heard  that  women  working  in  offices 
with  men  invariably  have  some  such  experience  as 
this  sooner  or  later.  And  now,  here  she  was,  face 
to  face  with  the  choice  between  self-respect  and  the 


MR.   GAMMELL    PRESUMES.     255 

enmity  of  the  man  who  could  do  her  the  most 
harm  in  the  most  serious  way — her  living.  And  in 
fairness  she  admitted,  perhaps  more  generously 
than  Gammell  deserved,  that  she  was  herself  in  part 
responsible  for  his  conduct. 

She  straightened  up — they  were  bending  over 
several  drawings  spread  upon  a  table — and  stiffened 
herself.  She  looked  at  him  with  a  cold  and  calm 
dignity  that  made  him  feel  as  futile  and  foolish  as 
if  he  had  found  himself  embracing  a  marble  statue. 
Anger  he  could  have  combated.  Appeal  he  would 
have  disregarded.  But  this  frozen  tranquillity  made 
him  drop  his  arm  from  her  waist  and  begin  con 
fusedly  to  handle  the  drawings.  Emily's  heart  beat 
wildly,  and  she  strove  in  vain  to  control  herself  so 
that  she  could  begin  to  talk  of  the  work  in  hand  as 
if  his  attempt  had  not  been.  His  nervousness 
changed  to  anger.  Instead  of  letting  the  matter 
drop,  he  said  sneeringly  :  "  Oh,  you  needn't  pretend. 
You  understood  perfectly  all  along.  You  were 
willing  to  use  me.  And  now " 

"  Please  don't !  "  Emily's  voice  was  choked. 
She  had  an  overpowering  sense  of  degradation. 
"  It  is  my  fault,  I  admit.  I  did  understand  in  a 
way.  But  I  tried  to  make  myself  believe  that  we 
were  just  friends,  like  two  men." 

"What  trash!"  said  Gammell  contemptuously. 
"  You  never  believed  it  for  an  instant.  You  knew 
that  there  never  was,  and  never  will  be,  a  friendship 
between  a  young  man  and  a  young  woman  unless 
each  is  thoroughly  unattractive  to  the  other." 


256      A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

He  was  plucking  up  courage  and  Emily  saw  that 
he  was  mentally  arranging  a  future  renewal  of  his 
attempt.  "  I  must  settle  it  now,  once  for  all,  at  any 
cost/'  she  said  to  herself,  with  the  resoluteness  that 
had  never  failed  her  in  crises.  Then  aloud,  to  him  : 
'*  At  any  rate,  we  understand  each  the  other  now. 
You  know  that  I  have  not  the  faintest  interest  in 
your  plan  for  mixing  sentiment  and  business."  Her 
look  and  tone  were  convincing  as  they  cut  deep 
into  his  vanity.  She  turned  to  the  drawings  and 
resumed  th'e  discussion  of  them.  In  a  very  few 
minutes  he  left  her.  "  He  hates  me,"  she  thought, 
"  and  I  can't  blame  him.  I  wonder  what  he'll  do  to 
revenge  himself  ?  " 

But  he  gave  no  sign.  When  they  met  again  and 
thereafter  he  treated  her  with  exaggerated  courtesy 
and  no  longer  annoyed  her.  "  He's  self-absorbed," 
she  concluded,  "  and  too  cool-headed  to  waste  time 
and  energy  in  revenges." 

But  when  her  articles  were  no  longer  displayed, 
were  on  the  contrary  "  cut "  or  altogether  "  side 
tracked,"  she  began  to  think  that  probably  the 
pinched-in  look  of  his  mouth  and  nose  and  at  the 
back  of  his  neck  did  not  belie  him.  She  felt  an 
ominous,  elusive  insecurity.  She  debated  asking 
Stilson  to  transfer  her  to  some  other  department. 

But  she  hesitated  to  go  to  Stilson.  For  she  now 
knew  the  whole  secret  of  his  looks  and  actions,  of 
which  she  had  been  thinking  curiously  ever  since 
the  morning  of  their  chance  meeting  in  the  Park. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE  TRUTH  ABOUT  A  ROMANCE. 

ONE  half  of  that  mystery  had  been  be- 
trayed  by  little  Mary.  The  other 
half  she  might  have  known  long  before 
had  she  not  held  aloof  from  her  fellow 
workers,  except  the  few  who  did  not 
gossip. 

******** 
He  was  a  Virginian.     He  had  been  brought  up  on 
a   farm — an  only  son,  carefully  sheltered,   tutored 
by  his  father  and  mother.      He  had  gone  up  to 
Princeton,   religious   and    reverential  of   the   most 
rigid  code  of  personal  morals.     His  studies  in  sci 
ence  and  philosophy  had  taken  away  his  creed.    But 
I  he  the  more  firmly  anchored  himself  to  his  moral 
j  code — not  because  he  was  prim  or  feeble  or  timid, 
but  because  to  him  his  morality  was  his  self  respect, 
He  graduated  from  Princeton  at  twenty  and  be 
came  a  reporter  on   The  World.     He  was  released 
to  New  York — young,  hot-blooded,  romantic,  dar 
ing.     He  rose  rapidly  and  was  not  laughed  at  for 
his  idealism  and  his  Puritanism,  partly  because  he 
was  able,  chiefly  because  he  had  that  arrogant  tem 
perament  which  enforces  respect  from  the  irreso 
lute,  submissive  majority. 


258    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

One  night,  a  few  weeks  before  he  was  twenty-one, 
he  went  with  Harry  Penrose  of  the  Herald  to  the 
opening  of  the  season  at  the  Gold  and  Glory.  It 
was  then  in  the  beginning  of  its  fame  as  the  best 
music-hall  in  the  country  if  not  in  the  world.  As 
they  entered,  the  orchestra  was  playing  one  of 
those  dashing  melodies  that  seem  to  make  the 
blood  flow  in  their  rhythm.  The  stage  was  thronged 
with  a  typical  Gold  and  Glory  chorus — tall,  hand 
some  young  women  with  long,  slender  arms  and 
legs.  They  were  dancing  madly,  their  eyes  spark 
ling,  their  hair  waving,  the  straps  slipping  from  their 
young  shoulders,  their  slim  legs  in  heliotrope  silk 
marking  the  time  of  the  music  with  sinuous  strokes 
from  the  stage  to  high  above  their  heads  and  down 
again.  Against  this  background  of  youth  and  joy 
and  colour  two  girls  were  leading  the  dance.  One 
of  them  was  round  and  sensuous  ;  the  other  thin  with 
the  pleasing  angularity  of  a  girl  not  yet  a  woman 
grown. 

Instantly  Stilson's  eyes  were  for  her.  He  felt 
that  he  had  never  even  imagined  such  grace.  The 
others  were  smiling  gaily,  boldly,  into  the  audience 
in  teasing  mock-invitation.  Her  lips  were  closed. 
Her  smile  was  dreamy,  her  soul  apparently  wrap 
ped  in  the  delirium  of  the  dance.  Her  whole  body 
was  in  constant  motion.  It  seemed  to  Stilson  that 
at  every  movement  of  shoulders  or  hips,  of  small 
round  arms  or  tapering  legs,  at  every  swing  of  that 
little  head  crowned  with  glittering  waves  of  golden 
light,  a  mysterious,  thrilling  energy  was  flung  out 


ABOUT    A    ROMANCE.       259 

from  her  like  an  electric  current.  He  who  had  not 
cared  for  women  of  the  stage  watched  this  girl  as  a 
child  at  its  first  circus  watches  the  lady  in  tights 
and  tarlatan.  When  the  curtain  went  down,  he  felt 
that  the  lights  were  being  turned  off  instead  of  on, 

"  Who  is  she  ?  "  he  asked  Penrose. 

"  Who  ?  "  said  Penrose,  looking  at  the  women 
near  by  in  the  orchestra  chairs.  "  Which  one  ?  " 

"The  girl  at  the  end — the  right  end — on  the 
stage,  I  mean." 

"  Oh — Marguerite  Feronia.  Isn't  she  a  wonder? 
I  don't  see  how  any  one  can  compare  her  with  Jen 
nie  Jessop,  who  danced  opposite  her." 

"  Do  you  know — Miss  Feronia  ?  "  asked  Stilson. 

"  Marguerite  ?  Yes.  I've  seen  her  a  few  times 
in  the  cork-room.  Ever  been  there  ?  " 

"  No."  Stilson  had  neither  time  nor  inclination 
for  dissipation. 

"  Would  you  like  to  go  ?  It's  an  odd  sort  of 
place." 

They  went  downstairs,  through  the  public  bar 
and  lounge  and  into  a  long  passage.  At  the  end 
Penrose  knocked  on  a  door  with  a  small  shutter  in 
it.  Up  went  the  shutter  and  in  its  stead  there  was 
a  fierce  face — low  forehead,  stubby,  close  cropped 
hair,  huge,  sweeping  moustache  shading  a  bull-dog 
jaw.  The  eyes  were  wicked  yet  not  unkindly. 

"  Hello,  John.  This  is  a  friend  of  mine  from 
the  WorM—Ur.  Stilson." 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Mr.  Penrose."  The  shutter  re 
placed  the  face  and  the  door  opened.  They  were 


26o    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

under  the  stage,  in  a  room  walled  and  ceilinged 
with  champagne  corks  and  broken  into  many  al 
coves  and  compartments.  They  sat  at  a  table  in 
one  of  the  alcoves  and  Penrose  ordered  a  bottle  of 
champagne.  When  the  waiter  brought  it  he  invited 
"  John  "  to  have  a  glass.  "  John  "  took  it  standing 
— "Your  health,  gents — best  regards" — a  gulp,  the 
glass  was  empty  and  the  moustache  had  a  deep, 
damp  fringe. 

"  I  have  orders  not  to  let  nobody  in  till  the  end 
of  the  performance,"  said  "John."  "But  you 
gents  of  the  press  is  different."  He  winked  as  if 
his  remark  were  a  witticism. 

"  May  I  see  Marguerite  for  a  minute  ?  " 

"  She's  got  to  change,"  said  "  John  "  doubtfully, 
"and  she  comes  on  about  five  minutes  after  the 
curtain  goes  up.  But  I'll  see." 

He  went  through  a  door  at  the  far  end  of  the 
"cork-room  "  and  soon  reappeared  with  Marguerite 
close  behind  him.  She  was  in  a  yellow  and  red 
costume — the  skirt  not  to  her  knees,  the  waist 
barely  to  the  top  of  her  low  corset.  She  put  out  a 
small  hand  white  of  itself,  and  smeared  with  rice- 
powder.  Her  hair  was  natural  golden  and  Stilson 
thought  her  as  beautiful  and  as  spiritual  as  she  had 
seemed  beyond  the  footlights.  "  Perhaps  not  quite 
so  young,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  possibly  twenty."  In 
fact  she  was  almost  thirty.  Her  voice  was  sweet 
and  childish,  her  manner  confiding,  as  became  so 
young-looking  a  person. 

Stilson  was  unable  to  speak.     He  could  only  look 


ABOUT    A    ROMANCE.       261 

and  long.  And  he  felt  guilty  for  looking — she  was 
very  slightly  clad.  She  and  Penrose  talked  com 
monplaces  about  the  opening,  Penrose  flattering 
her  effectively — Stilson  thought  his  compliments 
crude  and  insulting,  felt  that  she  would  resent  them 
if  she  really  understood  them.  She  soon  rose, 
touched  the  champagne  glass  to  her  lips,  nodded 
and  was  gone.  The  curtain  was  up — they  could 
hear  the  music  and  the  scuffling  of  many  feet  on 
the  stage  overhead. 

"  You  don't  want  to  miss  this,  Mr.  Penrose,"  said 
"John."  "It's  out  o'sight." 

They  took  a  second  glass  of  the  champagne  and 
left  the  rest  for  "  John."  When  they  were  a  few 
feet  down  the  passage,  Stilson  went  back  to  the 
door  of  the  "  cork-room."  The  shutter  lifted  at  his 
knock  and  he  cast  his  friendliest  look  into  the 
wicked,  good-humoured,  bull-dog  face.  "  My  name 
is  Stilson,"  he  said.  "You  won't  forget  me  if  I 
should  come  again  alone  ?  " 

"I  never  forget  a  face,"  said  "  John."  " That's 
why  I  keep  my  job." 

Stilson's  infatuation  increased  with  each  of 
Marguerite's  appearances.  The  longer  he  looked, 
the  stronger  was  the  spell  woven  over  his  senses  by 
that  innocent  face,  by  those  magnetic  arms  and 
legs.  But  he  would  have  knocked  down  any  one 
who  had  suggested  that  it  was  a  sensuous  spell. 

He  devoted  his  account  of  the  performance 
for  the  World  to  Marguerite,  the  marvellous  young 
interpreter  of-  the  innermost  meaning  of  music. 


262    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

The  copy-reader  "  toned  down  "  some  of  the  super 
latives,  but  left  his  picture  in  the  main  untouched. 
And  the  next  day  every  one  in  the  office  was  talking 
about  "  Stilson's  story  of  that  girl  up  at  the  Gold 
and  Glory."  It  was  the  best  possible  advertise 
ment  for  the  hall  and  for  the  girl.  Penrose  called 
him  on  the  telephone  and  laughed  at  him.  "  You 
are  a  fox,"  he  said.  "  Old  Barclay — he's  the 
manager  down  there,  you  know — called  me  up  a 
while  ago  and  asked  if  I  knew  who  wrote  the  puff 
of  Feronia  in  the  World.  I  told  him  it  was  you. 
Follow  it  up,  old  man." 

And  Stillson  did  "  follow  it  up."  That  very 
night,  toward  the  end  of  the  performance  he 
reappeared  at  the  door  of  the  "  cork-room,"  nervous 
but  determined,  and  with  all  he  had  left  of  last 
week's  earnings  in  his  pocket.  "  John  "  was  most 
gracious  as  he  admitted  him  and  escorted  him  to  a 
seat.  The  room  was  hazy  with  the  smoke  of  cigars 
and  cigarettes.  Many  men  and  several  young 
women  sat  at  the  tables.  A  silver  bucket  contain 
ing  ice  and  a  bottle  was  a  part  of  each  group. 
There  was  a  great  pounding  of  feet  on  the  floor 
overhead,  the  shriek  and  crash  of  the  orchestra,  the 
muffled  roar  of  applause.  All  the  young  men  were 
in  evening  clothes  except  Stilson  who  had  come 
direct  from  the  office.  The  young  woftien  were 
dressed  for  the  street.  Stilson  guessed  that  they 
were  "  extras  "  as  at  that  time  the  full  force  of  the 
company  must  be  on  the  stage. 

The   music  ceased,  the  pounding  of  feet  above 


ABOUT    A    ROMANCE.       263 

became  irregular  instead  of  regular,  and  into  the 
room  streamed  a  dozen  of  the  chorus  girls  in  tights, 
with  bare  necks  and  arms  and  painted  lips  and 
cheeks.  Their  eyes,  surrounded  by  pigment,  looked 
strangely  large  and  lustrous.  "  Just  one  glass,  then 
we  must  go  up  and  change."  And  there  was  much 
"  opening  of  wine  "  and  laughter  and  holding  of 
hands  and  one  covert  kiss  in  the  shadow  of  an  al 
cove  where  "John"  could  pretend  not  to  see. 
Then  the  chorus  girls  rushed  away  to  remove  part 
of  the  powder,  paint,  and  pigment  and  to  put  on 
street  clothing.  After  a  few  minutes,  during  which 
Stilson  watched  the  scene  with  a  deepening  sense 
of  how  out  of  place  he  was  in  it,  the  stage-door 
opened  and  Marguerite  came  in,  dressed  for  the 
street  in  a  pretty  gray  summer-silk  with  a  gray  hat 
to  match.  As  she  advanced  through  the  smoke, 
several  men  stood,  eager  to  be  recognised.  She 
smiled  sweetly  at  each  and  hesitated.  Stilson,  his 
courage  roused,  sprang  up  and  advanced  boldly. 
"  Good  evening,  Miss  Feronia,"  he  said,  his  eyes 
imploring  yet  commanding.  She  looked  at  him 
vaguely,  then  remembered  him. 

"  You  are  Mr.  Penrose's  friend  ?  "  she  said,  polite 
but  not  at  all  cordial. 

"  Yes — my  name's  Stilson,"  he  answered.  "  I 
was  here  last  night." 

"  Oh— Mr.  Stilson  of  the  World?  " 

Stilson  bowed.  She  was  radiant  now.  "  I  wrote 
you  a  note  to-day,"  she  said.  "  It  was  so  good  of 
you." 


264     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

"  Would  you  sit  and  let  me  order  something  for 
you  ?  " 

"  Certainly.     I  want  to  thank  you " 

"  Please  don't,"  he  said,  earnestly  and  with  a  hot 
blush.  "  I'd — I'd  rather  you  didn't  remember  me 
for  that." 

"Something"  in  the  cork-room  meant  cham 
pagne  or  a  wine  equally  expensive — the  manage 
ment  forbade  frugality  under  pain  of  exclusion. 
Miss  Feronia  was  thirsty  and  Stilson  thought  he 
had  never  before  seen  any  one  who  knew  how  to 
raise  a  glass  and  drink. 

"  You  were  good  to  me  in  the  paper  this  morn 
ing,"  she  said.  "Why?" 

"  Because  I  love  you." 

The  smoke,  the  room,  the  flaunting  reminders  of 
coarseness  and  sensuality  and  merchandising  in 
smiles  and  sentiment — all  faded  away  for  him.  He 
was  worshipping  at  the  shrine  of  his  lady-love. 
And  he  thought  her  as  pure  and  poetical  as  the 
temple  of  her  soul  seemed  to  his  enchanted  eyes. 
She  looked  at  him  over  the  top  of  her  glass,  with 
cynical,  tolerant  amusement.  The  rioting  bubbles 
were  rushing  upward  through  the  pale  gold  liquid 
to  where  her  lips  touched  it.  As  she  studied  him, 
the  cynicism  slowly  gave  place  to  that  dreamy  ex 
pression  which  means  much  or  little  or  nothing  at 
all,  according  to  what  lies  behind.  To  him  it  was 
entrancing  ;  it  meant  mind,  and  heart,  and  soul. 

"  What  a  nice,  handsome  boy  you  are,"  she  said, 
in  a  voice  so  gentle  that  he  was  not  offended  by  its 


ABOUT    A    ROMANCE.       265 

hint  that  her  experience  was  pitying  his  child-like 
inexperience. 

And  thus  it  began.  At  the  end  of  the  week  they 
were  married — he  would  have  it  so,  and  she,  puri 
fied  for  the  time  by  the  fire  of  this  boy's  romantic 
love,  thought  it  natural  that  the  priest  should  be 
called  in. 

To  him  it  was  a  dream  of  romance  come  true. 
His  strength,  direct,  insistent,  inescapable,  com 
pelled  her.  It  pleased  her  thus  to  be  whirled  away 
by  an  impassioned  boy,  enveloping  her  in  this  tem 
pestuous  yet  respectful  love  wholly  new  to  her. 
She  found  it  toilsome  to  live  up  to  his  ideal  of  her ; 
but,  with  the  aid  of  his  blindness,  she  achieved  it  for 
two  months  and  deserved  the  title  her  former  asso 
ciates  gave  her — "  Sainte  Marguerite."  Then 

He  came  home  one  morning  about  two.  As  he 
opened  the  door  of  their  flat,  he  heard  heavy  snor 
ing  from  their  little  parlour.  He  struck  a  match 
and  held  it  high.  As  the  light  penetrated  and  his 
eyes  grew  accustomed,  he  saw  Marguerite — his  wife 
— upon  the  lounge.  Her  only  covering  was  a  night 
gown  and  she  was  half  out  of  it.  Her  hair  was 
tumbled  and  tangled.  There  were  deep  lines  in  her 
swollen,  red  face.  Her  mouth  had  fallen  open  and 
her  expression  was  gross,  animal,  repulsive.  She 
was  sleeping  a  drunken  sleep,  in  a  room  stuffy  with 
the  fumes  of  whiskey  and  of  the  stale  smoke  and 
stale  stumps  of  cigarettes. 

The  match  burned  his  fingers  before  he  dropped 
it.  He  stumbled  through  the  darkness  to  their  bed- 


266    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

room,  and,  falling  upon  the  bed,  buried  his  face  in 
the  pillow  and  sobbed  like  a  child  that  has  re 
ceived  a  blow  struck  in  brutal  injustice.  Out  of 
the  corners  came  a  hundred  suspicious  little  circum 
stances  which  no  longer  feared  him  or  hid  from  him. 
They  leered  and  jeered  and  mocked,  shooting 
poisoned  darts  into  that  crushed  and  broken-hearted 
boy. 

He  rose  and  lit  the  gas.  He  went  to  a  closet  in 
a  back  room  and  took  down  a  bottle  of  whiskey  and 
a  tumbler.  In  pyjamas  and  slippers  he  seated 
himself  at  the  dining-room  table.  He  poured  out  a 
brimming  glass  of  the  whiskey  and  drank  it  down. 
A  moment  later  he  drank  another,  then  a  third. 
His  head  reeled,  his  blood  ran  thick  and  hot 
through  his  veins.  He  staggered  into  the  parlour 
and  stood  over  his  snoring  wife.  He  shook  her. 
"  Come,  wake  up  !  "  he  shouted. 

She  groaned,  murmured,  tossed,  suddenly  sat  up, 
catching  her  hair  together  with  one  hand,  her 
night-dress  with  the  other.  "  My  God  ! "  she  ex 
claimed,  in  terror  at  his  wild  face,  "  Don't  kill  me  ! 
I  can't  help  it — my  father  was  that  way  !  " 

"Yes — come  on!"  he  shouted.  "You  don't 
need  to  sneak  away  to  drink.  We'll  drink  together. 
We'll  go  to  hell  together." 

And  he  kept  his  word.  At  the  end  of  the  year 
he  was  dismissed  from  the  World  for  drunkenness. 
She  went  back  to  the  stage  and  supported  them 
both — she  was  a  periodic  drunkard,  while  he  kept 
steadily  at  it.  She  left  him,  returned  to  him,  loved 


ABOUT    A    ROMANCE.       267 

him,  fled  from  him,  divorced  him,  after  an  absence 
of  nearly  a  year  returned  to  make  another  effort  to 
undo  the  crime  she  felt  she  had  committed.  As 
she  came  into  the  squalid  room  in  a  wretched  fur 
nished-room  house  in  East  Fifth  Street  where  he  had 
found  a  momentary  refuge,  he  glared  at  her  with 
bleared,  bloodshot  eyes  and  uttered  a  curse.  She 
had  a  bundle  in  her  arms. 

"  Look,"  she  said,  in  a  low  tone,  stooping  beside 
the  bed  on  which  he  lay  in  his  rags. 

He  was  staring  stupidly  into  the  face  of  a  baby, 
copper-coloured,  homely,  with  puffy  cheeks  and 
watery,  empty  eyes.  He  fell  back  upon  the  bed 
and  covered  his  head. 

Soon  he  started  up  in  a  fury.  "  It  ought  to  have 
been  strangled/'  he  said. 

"  No !  No  !  "  she  exclaimed,  pressing  the  bundle 
tightly  against  her  bosom. 

He  rose  and  went  toward  her.  His  expression 
was  reassuring.  He  looked  long  into  the  child's  face. 

"  Where  are  you  living  ? "  he  asked  at  last. 
"  Don't  be  afraid  to  tell  me.  I'll  not  come  until " — 
He  paused,  then  went  on  :  "  The  road  ought  to 
lead  upward  from  here."  His  glance  went  round 
the  squalid  room  with  roaches  scuttling  along  its 
baseboard.  He  looked  down  at  his  grimed  tatters, 
his  gaping  shoes,  his  dirty  hands  and  black  and 
broken  nails. 

"  It  certainly  can't  lead  downward,"  he  muttered. 
For  the  first  time  in  months  he  felt  ashamed. 
"  Leave  me  alone,"  he  said. 


268     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

That  night  he  wrote  his  mother  for  the  loan  of  a 
hundred  dollars — the  first  money  from  home  since, 
at  the  end  of  his  last  long  vacation,  he  left  for  New 
York  and  a  career.  In  a  week  he  was  a  civilised 
man  again.  Marlowe  got  him  a  place  as  reporter 
on  the  Democrat.  It  was  immediately  apparent 
that  the  road  did  indeed  lead  upward. 

In  a  month  he  was  restored  to  his  former  appear 
ance — except  that  his  hair  was  sprinkled  with  gray 
at  the  temples  and  he  had  several  deep  lines  in  his 
young  yet  sombre  face. 


E 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

"  IN   MANY   MOODS." 

MILY  was  lunching  alone  at  the  Astor 
House  in  the  innermost  of  the  upstairs 
dining-rooms.  She  had  just  ordered 
when  a  woman  entered — obviously  a 
woman  of  the  stage,  although  she  was 
quietly  dressed.  She  had  a  striking  figure,  small 
but  lithe,  and  her  gown  was  fatted  to  its  every  curve. 
As  she  passed  Emily's  table,  to  the  left  of  the  door, 
the  air  became  odorous  of  one  of  those  heavy, 
sweet  perfumes  whose  basis  is  musk.  Her  face  was 
round,  almost  fat,  babyish  at  first  glance.  Her  eyes 
were  unnaturally  sleepy  and  had  many  fine  wrinkles 
at  the  corners.  She  seated  herself  at  the  far  end  of 
the  room,  so  that  she  was  facing  the  door  and 
Emily. 

She  called  the  waiter  in  a  would-be  imperious 
way,  but  before  she  had  finished  ordering  she  was 
laughing  and  talking  with  him  as  if  he  were  a  friend. 
Emily  noted  that  she  spoke  between  her  shut  teeth, 
like  a  morphine-eater.  As  the  waiter  left,  her  face 
lighted  with  pleasure  and  greeting.  Emily  was 
amazed  as  she  saw  the  man  toward  whom  this  look 
was  directed — Stilson.  He  did  not  see  Emily  when 
he  came  in,  and,  as  he  seated  himself  opposite  the 


270    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

woman  who  was  awaiting  him,  could  not  see  her. 
Nor  could  Emily  see  his  face,  only  his  back  and 
now  and  then  one  of  his  hands.  As  she  eagerly 
noted  every  detail  of  him  and  of  his  companion,  she 
suddenly  discovered  that  there  was  a  pain  at  her 
heart  and  that  she  was  criticising  the  woman  as  if 
they  were  bitter  enemies.  "  I  am  jealous  of  her," 
she  thought,  startled  as  she  grasped  all  that  was 
implied  in  jealousy  such  as  she  was  now  feeling. 

When  had  she  come  to  care  especially  for  Stilson  ? 
And  why  ?  Above  all,  how  had  she  fallen  in  love 
without  knowing  what  she  was  doing?  By  what 
subtle  chemistry  had  sympathy,  admiration,  trust, 
been  combined  into  this  new  element  undoubtedly 
love,  yet  wholly  unlike  any  emotion  she  had  felt  be 
fore?  "  Mary  must  have  set  me  to  thinking,"  she 
said  to  herself. 

The  woman  talked  volubly,  always  with  her  teeth 
together  and  her  eyes  half-closed.  But  Emily  could 
see  that  she  was  watching  Stilson's  face  closely,  lov 
ingly.  Stilson  seemed  to  be  saying  nothing  and 
looking  absently  out  of  the  window.  As  Emily 
studied  the  woman,  she  was  forced  to  confess  that 
she  was  fascinating  and  that  she  had  the  attractive 
remnants  of  beauty.  Her  manner  toward  Stilson 
made  her  manner  toward  the  waiter  a  few  minutes 
before  seem  like  a  real  self  carefully  and  habitually 
hidden  from  some  one  whom  she  knew  would  dis 
approve  it.  "  She  tries  to  live  up  to  him,"  thought 
Emily.  "  And  how  interesting  she  is  to  look  at — 
what  a  beautiful  figure,  what  graceful  gestures— 


"IN    MANY    MOODS."         271 

and — I  wonder  if  I  shall  look  as  well  at — at  her 
age?" 

She  could  not  eat.  "  How  I  wish  I  hadn't  seen 
her  with  him.  Now  I  shall  imagine — everything, 
while  before  this  I  thought  of  that  side  of  his  life  as 
if  it  didn't  exist."  She  went  as  quickly  as  she 
could,  for  she  felt  like  a  spy  and  feared  he  would 
turn  his  head.  In  the  next  room,  which  was  filled, 
she  met  Miss  Furnival,  the  "  fashion  editor  "  of  the 
Democrat ' s  Sunday  magazine.  Miss  Furnival  asked 
if  there  were  any  tables  vacant  in  the  next  room  and 
hastened  on  to  get  the  one  which  Emily  had  left. 

An  hour  later  Miss  Furnival  stopped  at  her  desk. 
"  Didn't  you  see  Stilson  in  that  room  over  at  the 
Astor  House  ? "  she  said,  and  Emily  knew  that 
gossip  was  coming. 

"  Was  he  there  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes — up  at  the  far  end  of  the  room — with  Mar 
guerite  Feronia.  She  used  to  be  his  wife,  you  know 
— and  she  divorced  him  when  he  went  to  pieces. 
And  now  they  live  together — at  least,  in  the  same 
house.  Some  say  that  he  refused  to  re-marry  her. 
But  Mr.  Gammell  told  me  it  was  the  other  way, 
that  she  told  a  friend  of  his  she  wasn't  fit  to  be 
Stilson's  wife.  She  said  she'd  ruined  him  once  and 
would  never  be  a  drag  on  him  again." 

"  I  suppose  he's — tremendously  in  love  with  her  ?  " 
Emily  tried  in  vain  to  prevent  herself  from  stooping 
to  this  question. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Miss  Furnival.  "  Mr. 
Gammell  told  me  he  wasn't.  He  says  Stilson  is  a 


272     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

sentimentalist.  It  seems  there  is  a  child — some  say 
a  boy,  some  say  a  girl.  She  first  told  Stilson  it  was 
his,  and  then  that  it  wasn't.  Mr.  Gammell  says 
Stilson  stays  on  to  protect  the  child  from  her. 
She's  a  terror  when  she  goes  on  one  of  her  sprees — 
and  she  goes  oftener  and  oftener  as  she  grows  older. 
You  can  always  tell  when  she's  on  the  rampage  by 
the  way  Stilson  acts.  He  goes  about,  looking  as  if 
somebody  had  insulted  him  and  he'd  been  too  big 
a  coward  to  resent  it." 

Instead  of  being  saddened  by  this  recital,  Emily 
was  in  sudden  high  spirits  and  her  eyes  were  dan 
cing.  "  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself,"  she 
thought,  "  but  I  can't  help  it.  I  wish  to  feel  that 
he  loathes  her."  Then  she  said  aloud  in  a  satirical 
tone,  to  carry  off  her  cheerful  expression  :  "  I  had 
no  idea  we  had  such  a  hero  among  us.  And  Mr. 
Stilson,  of  all  men  !  I'm  afraid  it's  a  piece  of  Park 
Row  imagination.  Probably  the  truth  is — let  us 
say,  less  romantic." 

"  You  don't  know  Mr.  Gammell,"  Miss  Furnival 
sighed.  "  He's  the  last  man  on  earth  to  indulge  in 
romance.  He  thinks  Stilson  ridiculous.  But  / 
think  he's  fine.  He's  the  best  of  a  few  good  men 
I've  known  in  New  York  who  weren't  good  only 
because  of  not  having  sense  enough  to  be  other 
wise." 

"  Good,"  repeated  Emily  in  a  tone  that  expressed 
strong  aversion  to  the  word. 

"  Oh,  mercy  no  !  I  don't  mean  that  kind  of 
good,"  said  Miss  Furnival.  "  He's  not  the  kind  of 


"IN    MANY    MOODS."         273 

good  that  makes  everybody  else  love  and  long  for 
wickedness." 

After  this  Emily  found  herself  making  trips  to 
the  news-department  on  extremely  thin  pretexts, 
and  returning  cheerful  or  depressed  according  as 
she  had  succeeded  or  failed  in  her  real  object.  And  » 
she  began  to  think — to  hope — that  Stilson  came  to 
the  Sunday  department  oftener  than  formerly. 
When  he  did  come — and  it  certainly  was  oftener — 
he  merely  bowed  to  her  as  he  passed  her  desk.  But 
whenever  she  looked  up  suddenly,  she  found  his 
gaze  upon  her  and  she  felt  that  her  vanity  was  not 
dictating  her  interpretation  of  it.  She  had  an  in 
stinct  that  if  he  knew  or  suspected  her  secret  or 
suspected  that  she  was  guessing  his  secret,  she  would 
see  him  no  more. 

As  the  months  passed,  there  grew  up  between 
them  a  mutual  understanding  about  which  she  saw 
that  he  was  deceiving  himself.  She  came  to  know 
him  so  well  that  she  read  him  at  sight.  Being  large 
and  broad,  he  was  simple,  tricking  himself  when  it 
would  have  been  impossible  for  him  to  have  tricked 
another.  And  it  made  her  love  him  the  more  to 
see  how  he  thought  he  was  hiding  himself  from  her 
and  how  unconscious  he  was  of  her  love  for  him. 

She  had  no  difficulty  in  gratifying  her  longing  to* 
hear  of  him.  He  was  naturally  the  most  conspicu 
ous  figure  in  the  office  and  often  a  subject  of  con 
versation.  She  was  delighted  by  daily  evidences  of 
the  power  of  his  personality  and  by  tributes  to  it. 
For  Park  Row  liked  to  gossip  about  his  eccentrici- 


274    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

i  ties, — he  was  called  eccentric  because  he  had  the 
j  courage  of  his  individuality  ;  or  about  his  sagacity  as 
)  an  editor,  his  sardonic  wit,  his  cynicism  concealing 
but  never  hindering  thoughtfulness  for  others. 
Shrinking  from  prying  eyes,  he  was  always  unin 
tentionally  provoking  curiosity.  Hating  flattery, 
he  was  the  idol  and  the  pattern  of  a  score  of  the 
younger  men  of  the  profession.  His  epigrams  were 
quoted  and  his  walk  was  copied,  his  dress,  his  way  of 
wearing  his  hair.  Even  his  stenographer,  a  girl, 
unconsciously  and  most  amusingly  imitated  his  man 
nerisms.  All  the  indistinct  and  inferior  personalities 
about  him,  in  the  hope  of  making  themselves  less  in 
distinct  and  inferior,  copied  as  closely  as  they  could 
those  characteristics  which,  to  them,  seemed  the 
cause  of  his  standing  up  and  out  so  vividly.  One 
day  Emily  was  passing  through  an  inside  room 
of  the  news-department  on  her  way  to  the  Day 
Telegraph  Editor.  Stilson  was  at  a  desk  which  he 
sometimes  used.  He  had  his  back  toward  her  and 
was  talking  into  the  portable  telephone,  She  glanced 
at  the  surface  of  his  desk.  With  eyes  trained  to 
take  in  details  swiftly,  she  saw  before  she  could 
look  away  an  envelope  addressed  to  Boughton  and 
Wall,  the  publishers,  a  galley  proof  projecting  from 
it,  and  on  the  proof  in  large  type: "17  In  Many 
Moods." 

"  He  has  written  a  book,"  she  thought,  "  and  that 
is  the  title."  And  she  was  filled  with  loving  curios 
ity.  She  speculated  about  it  often  in  the  next  six 
weeks  ;  then  she  saw  it  on  a  table  in  Brentano's. 


"IN    MANY    MOODS."         275 

"Yes,   it's  been  selling  fairly  well — for  poetry, 
said  the  clerk.     "  There's  really  no  demand  for  new 
poetry.     Ninety-one  cents.     You'll  find  the  verses 
very  pretty." 

Poetry — verses — Stilson  a  verse-maker!  Emily 
was  surprised  and  somewhat  amused.  There  was* 
no  author's  name  on  the  title-page  and  it  was  a 
small  volume,  about  twenty  poems,  the  most  of 
them  short,  each  with  a  mood  as  a  title — Anger, 
Parting,  Doubt,  Jealousy,  Courage,  Foreboding, 
Passion,  Hope,  Renunciation — at  Renunciation  she 
paused  and  read. 

It  was  a  crowded  street-car  and  she  bent  low  over 
the  book  to  hide  her  face.  She  had  the  clue  to  the 
book.  Indeed  she  presently  discovered  that  it  was 
to  be  found  in  every  poem.  Stilson  had  loved  her 
long — almost  from  her  first  appearance  in  the  office. 
And  in  these  verses,  breathing  generosity  and  self- 
sacrifice,  and  well-aimed  for  one  heart  at  least,  he 
had  poured  out  his  love  for  her.  It  was  sad,  intense, 
sincere,  a  love  that  made  her  proud  and  happy, 
yet  humble  and  melancholy,  too. 

As  she  read  she  seemed  to  see  him  looking  at  her, 
she  felt  his  heart  aching.  Now  he  was  holding  her 
tight  in  his  arms,  raining  kisses  on  her  face  and 
making  her  blood  race  like  maddest  joy  through  her 
veins.  Again,  he  was  standing  afar  off,  teaching 
her  the  lesson  that  the  love  that  can  refrain  and 
renounce  is  the  truest  love.  It  was  a  revelation  of 
this  strange  man  even  to  her  who  had  studied  him 
long  and  penetratingly.  So  absorbed  was  she  in 


276    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

reading  and  re-reading  that  when  she  glanced  up  the 
car  was  at  One  hundred  and  fourteenth  street- 
miles  past  her  house.  She  walked  down  to  and 
through  the  Park  in  an  abandon  of  happiness  over 
these  love  letters  so  strangely  sent,  thus  acciden 
tally  received.  "  I  must  never  let  him  see  that  I 
know,"  she  thought — "  yet  how  can  I  help  showing 
it?" 

She  met  him  the  very  next  day — almost  ran  into 
him  as  she  left  the  elevator  at  the  news-department 
floor  where  he  was  waiting  to  take  it  on  its  descent. 
For  the  first  time  she  betrayed  herself,  looking  at 
him  with  a  burning  blush  and  with  eyes  shining 
with  the  emotion  she  could  not  instantly  conceal. 
She  passed  on  swiftly,  conscious  that  he  was  gazing 
after  her  startled.  "  I  acted  like  a  child,"  she  said 
to  herself,  "  and  here  I  am,  trembling  all  over  as  if 
I  were  seventeen."  And  then  she  wrought  herself 
up  with  thinking  what  he  might  think  of  her. 
"  Where  is  my  courage  ? "  she  reassured  herself, 
"  What  a  poor  love  his  would  be  if  he  misunder 
stood  me."  Nevertheless  she  was  afraid  that  she 
had  shown  too  much.  "  I  suppose  it's  impossible 
to  be  courageous  and  restrained  when  one  loves." 

But  when  she  saw  him  again — two  days  later,  in 
the  vestibule  of  the  Democrat  Building — it  was  her 
turn  to  be  self-possessed  and  his  to  betray  himself. 
He  was  swinging  along  with  his  head  down  and 
gloom  in  his  face.  He  must  have  recognised  her 
by  her  feet — distinctive  in  their  slenderness  and  in 
the  sort  of  boots  that  covered  them.  For  he  sud- 


"IN    MANY    MOODS."        277 

denly  gave  her  a  flash-like  glance  which  said  to  her 
as  plainly  as  words  :  "  I  am  in  the  depths.  If  I 
only  dared  to  reach  out  my  hand  to  you,  dear !  " 
Then  he  recovered  himself,  reddened  slightly,  bowed 
almost  guiltily  and  passed  on  without  speaking. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

A  FORCED  ADVANCE. 

IT  was  the  talk  of  the  Sunday  office  that  Emily 
was  being  "  frozen  out."  The  women  said  it 
was  her  own  fault — her  looks  had  at  last 
failed  to  give  her  a  "  pull."  The  men  said  it 
was  some  underhand  scheme  of  GammeH's 
— what  was  more  likely  in  the  case  of  an  attractive 
but  thoroughly  business-like  woman  such  as  Emily 
and  such  a  man  as  Gammell,  oriental  in  his  ideas  on 
women  and  of  infinite  capacity  for  meanness.  Both 
the  men  and  the  women  reached  their  conclusions 
by  ways  of  prejudice;  the  men  came  nearer  to  the 
truth,  which  was  that  Gammell  was  bent  upon  pun 
ishing  Emily,  and  that  Emily,  discouraged  and 
suffering  under  a  sense  of  injustice,  was  aiding  him 
to  justify  himself  to  his  superiors.  The  mere  sight 
of  her  irritated  him  now.  Success  had  developed 
his  natural  instinct  to  tyranny,  and  she  represented 
rebellion  intrenched  and  defiant  within  his  very 
gates.  One  day  he  found  Stilson  waiting  in  his 
office  to  look  over  and  revise  his  Sunday  schedule. 
He  hated  Stilson  because  Stilson  was  his  superior 
officer,  and  each  week — in  the  interest  of  the  repu 
tation  of  the  paper — was  compelled  to  veto  the 


A    FORCED    ADVANCE.       279 

too  audacious,  too  "  yellow  "  projects  of  the  sen 
sational  Gammell. 

That  day  at  sight  of  Stilson  he  with  difficulty 
concealed  his  hate.  He  had  just  passed  one  of  his 
enemies — Emily  in  a  new  dress  and  new  hat,  in 
every  way  a  painful  reminder  of  his  discomfiture. 
And  now  here  was  his  other  enemy  lying  in  wait,  as 
he  instinctively  felt,  to  veto  an  article  in  which  he 
took  especial  pride. 

Stilson  was  not  covert  in  his  aversions.  Diplo 
matic  with  no  one,  he  rasped  upon  Gammell's  highly- 
strung  nerves  like  a  screech  in  the  ear  of  a  neurotic. 
The  wrangle  began  quietly  enough  in  an  exchange 
of  veiled  sarcasms  and  angry  looks — contemptuous 
from  Stilson,  venomous  from  Gammell.  But  the 
double  strain  of  Emily  and  Stilson  was  too  strong 
for  Gammell's  discretion.  From  stealthy  sneers, 
he  passed  to  open  thrusts.  Stilson,  as  tyrannical 
as  Gammell,  if  that  side  of  his  nature  was  roused, 
grew  calm  with  rage  and  presently  in  an  arrogant 
tone  ordered  Gammell  to  "  throw  away  that  vicious 
stuff,  and  let  me  hear  no  more  about  it." 

"  It  is  a  pity,  my  dear  sir,"  he  went  on,  "  that  you 
should  waste  your  talents.  Why  roll  in  the  muck  ? 
Why  can't  you  learn  not  to  weary  me  with  this 
weekly  inspection  of  insanity  ?  " 

Gammell's  eyes  became  pale  green,  his  cheeks  an 
unhealthy  bluish  gray.  He  cast  about  desperately 
for  a  weapon  with  which  to  strike  and  strike  home. 
Emily  was  in  his  mind  and,  while  he  had  not  the 
faintest  notion  that  Stilson  cared  for  her  or  she  for 


280    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

him,  he  remembered  Stilson's  emphatic  compliments 
on  her  work.  "  Perhaps  if  I  were  supplied  with  a 
more  capable  staff,  we  might  get  together  articles 
that  would  be  intelligent  as  well  as  striking.  But 
what  can  I  do,  handicapped  by  such  a  staff,  by  such 
useless  ornamentals  as — well,  as  your  Miss  Brom- 
field." 

"'That  reminds  me."  Stilson  recovered  his  out 
ward  self-control  at  once.  "  I  notice  she  has  little 
in  the  magazine  nowadays.  Instead  of  exhausting 
yourself  on  such  character-destroying  stuff  as  this," 
with  a  disdainful  gesture  toward  the  rejected  article, 
"  you  might  be  arranging  for  features  such  as  she 
used  to  do  and  do  very  well." 

"  She's  not  of  the  slightest  use  here  any  longer." 
Gammell  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  lifted  his  eye 
brows.  "  She's  of  no  use  to  the  paper.  And  as  the 
present  Sunday  editor  doesn't  happen  to  fancy  her, 
why,  she's  of  no  use  at  all — now." 

With  a  movement  so  swift  that  Gammell  had  no 
time  to  resist  or  even  to  understand,  Stilson  whirled 
him  from  his  chair,  and  flung  him  upon  the  floor  as 
if  he  were  some  insect  that  had  shown  sudden  venom 
and  must  be  crushed  under  the  heel  without  delay. 

"  Don't  kill  me !  "  screamed  Gammell,  in  a  frenzy 
of  physical  fear,  as  he  looked  up  at  Stilson's  face 
ablaze  with  the  homicidal  mania.  "  For  God's 
sake,  Stilson,  don't  murder  me  !  " 

The  door  opened  and  several  frightened  faces 
appeared  there.  Stilson,  distracted  from  his  pur 
pose,  turned  on  the  intruders.  "  Close  that  door  !  " 


A    FORCED    ADVANCE.       281 

he  commanded.  "  Back  to  your  work !  "  and  he 
thrust  the  door  into  its  frame.  "  Now,  get  up  !  " 
he  said  to  Gammell.  "  You  are  one  of  those  vile 
creatures  that  are  brought  into  the  world — I  don't 
know  how,  but  I'm  sure  without  the  interposition  of 
a  mother.  Get  up  and  brush  yourself.  And  here 
after  see  that  you  keep  your  foul  mind  from  your 
lips  and  eyes." 

He  stalked  away,  his  footsteps  ringing  through 
the  silent  Sunday  room  where  all  were  bending  over 
their  work  in  the  effort  to  obliterate  themselves. 
Within  an  hour  the  story  of  "  the  fight "  was  racing 
up  and  down  Park  Row  and  in  and  out  of  every 
newspaper  office.  But  no  one  could  explain  it.  And 
to  this  day  Emily  does  not  know  why  Gammell 
gave  her  late  that  afternoon  the  best  assignment 
she  had  had  in  three  months. 

In  the  following  week  she  received  a  letter  from 
Burnham,  general  manager  of  Trescott,  Anderson 
and  Company,  the  publishers  in  Twenty-third 
Street.  It  was  an  invitation  to  call  "  at  your 
earliest  convenience  in  reference  to  a  matter  which 
we  hope  will  interest  you."  She  went  in  the  morn 
ing  on  her  way  down  town.  Mr.  Burnham  was 
most  polite — a  twitching  little  man,  inclined  to  be 
silly  in  his  embarrassment,  talking  rapidly  and 
catching  his  breath  between  sentences. 

"  We  are  making  several  changes  in  the  conduct 
of  our  magazines,"  said  he.  "  We  wish  to  get  some 
young  blood— newspaper  blood,  in  fact,  into  them. 
We  wish  to  make  them  less — less  prosy,  more — • 


282     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

more  up-to-date.  No — not '  yellow  ' — by  no  means — • 
nothing  like  that.  Still,  we  feel  that  we  ought  to  be 
a  little — yes — livelier." 

"Closer  to  the  news — to  current  events  and 
subjects?"  suggested  Emily. 

"  Yes, — precisely — you  catch  my  meaning  at 
once."  Mr.  Burnham  was  looking  at  her  as  if  she 
were  a  genius.  He  was  of  those  men  who  are 
dazzled  when  they  discover  a  gleam  of  intelligence 
in  a  beautiful  woman.  "  Now,  we  wish  to  get  you 
to  help  us  with  our  World  of  Women.  Mrs.  Parrott 
is  the  editor,  as  you  perhaps  know.  She's  been 
with  us — yes — twenty-three  years,  eighteen  years  in 
her  present  position.  And  after  making  some 
inquiries,  we  decided  to  invite  you  to  join  the  staff 
as  assistant  to  Mrs.  Parrott." 

"  I  know  the  magazine,"  said  Emily,  "  and  I 
think  I  see  the  directions  in  which  the  improve 
ments  you  suggest  could  be  made.  But  I'm  not 
dissatisfied  with  my  present  position.  Of  course — 
if — well — "  She  looked  at  Mr.  Burnham  with  an 
ingenuous  expression  that  hid  the  business  guile 
beneath — "  Of  course,  I  couldn't  refuse  an  oppor 
tunity  to  better  myself." 

"We — that  is—  '  Mr.  Burnham  looked  miserable 
and  plucked  wildly  at  his  closely-trimmed  gray  and 
black  beard.  "  May  I  ask  what — what  financial 
arrangement  would  be  agreeable  to  you  ?  " 

"The  offer  must  come  from  you,  mustn't  it?" 
said  Emily,  who  had  not  been  earning  her  own  liv 
ing  without  learning  first  principles. 


A    FORCED    ADVANCE.       283 

"  Yes — of  course — naturally."  Mr.  Burnham 
held  himself  rigid  in  his  chair,  as  if  it  required  sheer 
force  to  restrain  him  from  leaping  forth  and  away. 
"  Might  I  ask — what  you  are — what — what — return 
for  your  services  the  Democrat  makes  ?  " 

"  Sixty-five  dollars  a  week,"  said  Emily.  "  But 
my  position  there  is  less  exacting  than  it  would  be 
here.  I  have  practically  no  editorial  responsibility. 
And  editorial  responsibility  means  gray  hair." 

"  Yes — certainly — you  would  expect  compensa 
tion  for  gray  hair — dear  me,  no — I  beg  your  par 
don.  What  were  we  saying?  Yes — we  could 
hardly  afford  to  pay  so  much  as  that — at  the  start, 
you  know.  I  should  say  sixty  would  be  quite  the 
very  best.  But  your  hours  would  be  shorter — and 
you  would  have  the  utmost  freedom  about  writing 
articles,  stories,  and  so  forth.  And  of  course  you'd 
be  paid  extra  for  what  you  wrote  which  proved  ac 
ceptable  to  us.  Then  too,  it's  a  higher  class  of  work 
— the  magazines,  you  know — gives  one  character 
and  standing." 

"  Oh — work  is  work,"  said  Emily.  "  And  I  doubt 
if  a  magazine  could  give  me  character.  I  fear  I'd 
have  to  continue  to  rely  on  myself  for  that." 

"  Oh — I  beg  your  pardon.  I'm  very  stupid  to 
day — I  didn't  mean " 

As  he  hesitated  and  looked  imploringly  at  her, 
she  said  good-humouredly,  "  To  suggest  that  my 
standing  and  not  the  standing  of  your  magazine, 
was  what  you  were  trying  to  help  ?  " 

They  laughed,  they  became  friendly  and  he  had 


284    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

difficulty  in  keeping  his  mind  upon  business.  He 
presently  insisted  upon  sending  for  Mrs.  Parrott — 
a  stout,  motherly  person  with  several  chins  that 
descended  through  a  white  neck-cloth  into  a  vast 
bosom  quivering  behind  the  dam  of  a  high,  old- 
fashioned  corset.  Emily  noted  that  she  was  evi 
dently  of  those  women  who  exaggerate  their  natu 
ral  sweetness  into  a  pose  of  "womanly  "  sentiment 
and  benevolence.  She  spoke  the  precise  English 
of  those  who  have  heard  a  great  deal  of  the  other 
kind  and  dread  a  lapse  into  it.  She  was  amusingly 
a  "  literary  person,"  full  of  the  nasty-nice  phrases 
current  among  those  literary  folk  who  take  them 
selves  seriously  as  custodians  of  An  Art  and  A 
Language.  Emily's  manner  and  dress  impressed 
her  deeply,  and  she  soon  brought  in — not  without 
labour — the  names  of  several  fashionable  New 
Yorkers  with  whom  she  asserted  acquaintance  and 
insinuated  intimacy.  Emily's  eyes  twinkled  at 
this  exhibition  of  insecurity  in  one  who  but  the 
moment  before  was  preening  herself  as  a  high 
priestess  at  the  highest  altar. 

In  the  hour  she  spent  in  the  editorial  offices  of 
Trescott,  Anderson  and  Company,  Emily  was  de 
pressed  by  what  seemed  to  her  an  atmosphere  of 
dulness,  of  staleness,  of  conventionality,  of  remote 
ness  from  the  life  of  the  day.  "  They  live  in  a  sort 
of  cellar,"  she  thought.  "  I  don't  believe  I  could 
endure  being  cut  off  from  fresh  air."  After  pre 
tending  to  herself  elaborately  to  argue  the  matter, 
she  decided  that  she  would  not  make  the  change. 


A    FORCED    ADVANCE.       285 

But  her  real  reason,  as  she  was  finally  compelled 
to  admit  to  herself,  was  Stilson.  Not  to  see  him, 
not  to  feel  that  he  was  near,  not  to  be  in  daily  con 
tact  with  his  life — it  was  unthinkable.  She  knew 
that  she  was  so  unbusinesslike  in  this  respect  that, 
if  the  Democrat  cut  her  salary  in  half,  she  would 
still  stay  on.  "  I'm  only  a  woman  after  all,"  she 
said  to  herself.  "  A  man  wouldn't  do  as  I'm 
doing — perhaps."  She  did  not  in  the  least  care. 
She  was  not  ashamed  of  her  weakness.  She  was 
even  admitting  nowadays  a  liking  for  the  idea  that 
Stilson  could  and  would  rule  her.  And  she  was 
not  at  all  sure  that  the  reason  for  this  revolutionary 
liking  was  the  reason  she  gave  herself — that  he 
would  not  ask  her  to  do  anything  until  he  was  sure 
she  was  willing  to  do  it. 

Two  days  after  she  wrote  her  refusal,  Stilson  sent 
for  her.  At  first  glance  she  saw  that  he  was  a 
bearer  of  evil  tidings.  And  in  the  next  she  saw 
what  the  evil  tidings  were — that  he  had  pene 
trated  her  secret  and  his  own  self-deception,  and 
was  remorseful,  aroused,  determined  to  put  himself 
out  of  her  life. 

"  You  have  refused  your  offer  from  Burnham  ?  " 
He  drew  down  his  brows  and  set  his  jaw,  as  if  he 
expected  a  struggle. 

"  Yes — I  prefer  to  stay  here.  I  have  reasons." 
She  felt  reckless.  She  was  eager  for  an  opportunity 
to  discuss  these  "  reasons." 

"  You  must  accept." 

"  If— Must  ?  "  She  flushed  and  put  her  face  up 
haughtily. 


286    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

"  Yes — I  ask  it.  The  position  will  soon  be  an 
advancement.  And  you  cannot  stay  here." 

"  How  do  you  know  about  this  offer — so  much 
about  it?" 

"  I  got  it  for  you  when — when  I  found  that  you 
must  go." 

She  looked  defiance.  She  saw  an  answering  look 
of  suffering  and  appeal. 

"  Why  ?  "  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.     "  Why  ?  " 

"For  two  reasons,"  he  replied.  "I  may  tell  you 
only  one — Gammell.  He  will  find  a  way  to  injure 
you.  I  know  it.  It  would  be  folly  for  you  to  stay." 

"  And  the  other  reason  ?  " 

He  did  not  answer,  but  continued  to  look  steadily 
at  her. 

"  I — I — understand,"  she  murmured  at  last,  her 
look  falling  before  his,  and  the  colour  coming  into 
her  face,  "  I  will  go." 

"  Thank  you."  He  bowed  with  a  courtesy  that 
suggested  the  South  in  the  days  before  the  war. 
He  walked  beside  her  to  the  elevator.  His 
shoulders  were  drooped  as  if  under  a  heavy  burden. 
His  face  was  white  and  old,  and  its  deep  lines  were 
like  scars. 

"  Down,  ten  !  "  he  called  into  the  elevator-shaft 
as  the  car  shot  past  on  the  up-trip.  Soon  the 
descending  car  stopped  and  the  iron  door  swung 
back  with  a  bang. 

The  door  closed,  she  saw  him  gazing  at  her;  and 
that  look  through  the  bars  of  the  elevator  door, 
haunted  her.  She  had  seen  it  in  his  face  once  before, 


A    FORCED    ADVANCE.       287 

though  not  so  strongly, — when  she  said  good-bye  to 
him  as  she  was  going  away  to  Paris.  But  where  else 
had  she  seen  it  ?  Weeks  afterward,  when  she  was 
talking  to  Mrs.  Parrott  of  something  very  different, 
there  suddenly  leaped  to  the  surface  of  her  mind  a 
memory — the  public  square  in  a  mountain  town,  a 
man  dead  upon  the  stones,  another  near  him,  dying 
and  turning  his  face  toward  the  shelter  whence  he 
had  come ;  and  in  his  face  the  look  of  farewell  to  the 
woman. 

"  What  is  it,  dear?  Are  you  ill  this  morning?" 
a^ked  Mrs.  Parrott. 

"  Not — not  very,"  answered  Emily  brokenly,  and 
she  vanished  into  her  office  and  closed  its  door. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

A  MAN  AND  A  "  PAST." 

HAD  Emily  and  Stilson  been  idlers  or  of 
those  workers   who   look   upon  work 
as  a  curse,  they  would  have  taken  one 
of  two  courses.     Either  Stilson  would 
have  repudiated  his  obligations  and 
they  would  have  rushed  together  to   hurry  on  to 
what  would  have   been    for   them    a   moral   catas 
trophe,  or  they  would  have  remained  apart  to  sink 
separately  into  mental   and   physical  ruin.     As  it 
was,  they  worked — steadily,  earnestly,  using  their 
daily  routine  of  labour  to  give  them  strength  for 
the  fight  against  depression  and  despair. 

Stilson,  with  the  tenacity  of  purpose  that  made 
life  for  him  one  long  battle,  fought  hopelessly. 
To  him  hope  seemed  always  only  the  delusive  fore 
shadow  of  oncoming  disappointment,  a  lying  mes 
senger  sent  ahead  by  fate  in  cynical  mockery  of  its 
human  prey.  And  whenever  his  routine  relaxed  its 
compulsion,  he  laid  himself  on  the  rack  and  tor 
tured  himself  with  memories  and  with  dreams. 

Emily  was  aided  by  her  temperament.  She 
loved  life  and  passionately  believed  in  it.  She  was 
mentally  incapable  of  long  accepting  an  adverse  de- 


A    MAN    AND    A    "PAST."     289 

cree  of  destiny  as  final.  But  at  best  it  was  a  wintry 
light  that  hope  shed — between  storms — upon  her 
heart.  Her  chief  source  of  courage  was  her  ideal  of 
him — the  strong,  the  brave,  the  inflexible.  "  For 
give  me !  "  she  would  say,  humbling  herself  before 
his  image  in  her  mind  after  her  outbursts  of 
protest  or  her  attacks  of  despondency.  "  I  am  not 
worthy  of  you.  But  oh, — I  want  you — need  you 
— so  !  " 

Within  a  short  time  it  was  apparent  that  from 
the  professional  standpoint  she  had  done  well  in 
going  to  the  World  of  Women.  After  the  newspa 
per,  the  magazine  seemed  play.  In  the  Democrat 
office  she  had  not  been  looked  upon  as  extraordi 
nary.  Here  they  regarded  her  as  a  person  of 
amazing  talent — for  a  woman.  They  marvelled  at 
her  energy,  at  her  quickness,  at  her  flow  of  plans 
for  articles  and  illustrations.  And  without  a  hint 
from  her  they  raised  her  salary  to  what  she 
had  been  getting,  besides  accepting  proposals 
she  made  for  several  articles  to  be  written  by  her 
self. 

They  were  especially  delighted  with  her  manage 
ment  of  "  the  old  lady  " — the  only  name  ever  given 
Mrs.  Parrott  when  she  was  out  of  hearing.  She  pat 
ronised  Emily  in  a  motherly  way,  and  Emily  submit 
ted  like  a  dutiful  daughter.  She  accepted  Emily's 
suggestions  as  her  own.  "  My  dear,"  she  said  one 
day,  "  I'm  so  glad"  I've  got  you  here  to  help  me  put 
my  ideas  through.  I've  been  suggesting  and  sug 
gesting  in  vain  for  years."  And  Emily  looked  grate- 


290    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

ful  and  refused  to  respond  to  the  sly  smile  from  Mr. 
Burnham  who  had  overheard. 

Emily  did  not  under-estimate  Mrs.  Parrott's  use 
fulness  to  her.  In  thirty  years  of  experience  as  a 
writer  and  an  editor,  "  the  old  lady  "  had  accumu 
lated  much  that  was  of  permanent  value,  as  well  as 
a  mass  of  antiquated  or  antiquating  trash.  Emily 
belonged  to  the  advance  guard  of  a  generation  that 
had  small  reverence  for  the  "  prim  ideals  of  the  past.'* 
Mrs.  Parrott  knew  the  "  provincial  mind,"  the  mag 
azine-reading  mind,  better  than  did  Emily — or  at 
least  was  more  respectful  of  its  ideas,  more  cautious 
of  offending  its  notions  of  what  it  believed  or 
thought  it  ought  to  believe.  And  often  when  Emily 
through  ignorance  or  intolerance  would  have  "  gone 
too  far  "  for  any  but  a  New  York  constituency,  Mrs. 
Parrott  interposed  with  a  remonstrance  or  a  sugges 
tion  which  Emily  was  acute  enough  to  appreciate. 
She  laughed  at  these  "hypocrisies  "  but — she  always 
had  circulation  in  mind.  She  liked  to  startle,  but  she 
knew  that  she  must  startle  in  ways  that  would  attract, 
not  frighten  away. 

But  conscientious  though  she  was  in  her  work, 
and  careful  to  have  her  evenings  occupied,  she  was 
still  forlorn.  Life  was  purposeless  to  her.  She 
was  working  for  self  alone,  and  she  who  had 
never  cared  to  excess  for  self,  now  cared  nothing  at 
all.  In  her  own  eyes  her  one  value  was  her  value 
to  Stilson.  She  reproached  herself  for  what  seemed 
to  her  a  low,  a  degradingView,  traversing  all  she  had 
theretofore  preached  and  tried  to  practice.  But  she 


A    MAN    AND    A    "PAST."     291 

had  only  to  pause  to  have  her  heart  aching  for  him 
and  her  thoughts  wandering  in  speculations  about 
him  or  memories  of  him. 

Her  friends — Joan,  Evelyn,  Theresa — wondered 
at  the  radical  changes  in  her,  at  her  abstraction, 
her  nervousness,  her  outbursts  of  bitterness.  She 
shocked  Joan  and  Evelyn,  both  now  married,  with 
mockeries  at  marriage,  at  love,  at  every  sentiment 
of  which  they  took  a  serious  view.  One  day — at 
Joan's,  after  a  tirade  against  the  cruelty,  selfishness, 
and  folly  of  bringing  children  into  the  world — she 
startled  her  by  snatching  up  the  baby  and  burying 
her  face  in  its  voluminous  skirts  and  bursting  into  a 
storm  of  sobs  and  tears. 

"  What  is  it,  Emmy  ?  "  asked  Joan,  taking  away 
the  baby  as  he,  recovering  from  his  amazement,  set 
up  a  lusty-lunged  protest  against  such  conduct  and 
his  enforced  participation  therein. 

Emily  dried  her  eyes  and  fell  to  laughing  as  hys 
terically  as  she  had  wept.  *'  Poor  baby,"  she  said. 
"  Let  me  take  him  again,  Joan."  And  she  soon 
had  him  quiet,  and  staring  at  a  large  heart-shaped 
locket  which  she  slowly  swung  to  and  fro  just  be 
yond  the  point,  or  rather,  the  cap,  of  his  little  lump 
of  a  nose.  "  I'm  in  a  bad  way,  Joan,"  she  went  on. 
"  I  can't  tell  you.  Telling  would  do  no  good.  But 
my  life  is  in  a  wretched  tangle,  and  I  don't  see  any 
thing  ahead  but — but — tangles.  And  as  I  can't  get 
what  I  want,  I  won't  take  anything  at  all." 

"You  are  old  enough  to  know  better.  Your 
good  sense  teaches  you  that  if  you  did  get  what 
you  want,  you'd  probably  wish  you  hadn't." 


292     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

"  That's  the  trouble,"  said  Emily,  shaking  her 
head  sadly  at  the  baby.  "  My  good  sense  in  this 
case  teaches  me  just  the  reverse.  I've  seen  a  man 
— a  real  man  this  time — my  man  morally,  mentally, 
physically.  He's  a  man  with  a  mind,  and  a  heart, 
and  what  I  call  a  conscience.  He's  been  through 
— oh,  everything.  And  error  and  suffering  have 
made  him  what  he  is — a  man.  He's  a  man  to  look 
up  to,  a  man  to  lean  upon,  a  man  to — to  care  for." 
Her  expression  impressed  Joan's  skepticism.  "  Do 
you  wonder?"  she  said. 

"  No."  Joan  looked  away.  "  But — forget — put 
him  out  of  your  life.  You  are  trying  to — aren't 
you?" 

"To  forget?  No — I  can't  even  try.  It  would 
be  useless.  Besides,  who  wants  to  forget  ?  And 
there's  always  a  chance." 

"At  least"  —  Joan  spoke  with  conviction — 
"you're  not  likely  to  do  anything — absurd." 

"That's  true  —  unfortunately.  /  couldn't  be 
trusted,  I'm  afraid.  But — "  Emily's  laugh  was 
short  and  cynical — "  my  man  can." 

"  He  must  be  a — a  sort  of  prig."  Joan  felt  sus 
picious  of  a  masculine  that  could  stand  out  against 
'the  temptation  of  such  a  feminine  as  her  adored 
Emily. 

"  See  !  Even  you  couldn't  be  trusted.  But  no, 
he's  not  a  prig — just  plain  honourable  and  decent, 
in  an  old-fashioned  way  that  exasperates  me — and 
thrills  me.  That's  why  I  say  he's  a  man  to  lean 
upon  and  believe  in." 


A    MAN    AND    A    "PAST."     293 

Emily  felt  better  for  having  talked  with  some 
one  about  him  and  went  away  almost  cheerful. 
But  she  was  soon  down  again,  and  time  seemed 
only  to  aggravate  her  unhappiness.  "  I  must  be 
brave,"  she  said.  "  But  why?  Why  should  I  go 
on  ?  He  has  Mary — I  have  nothing."  And  the 
great  dread  formed  in  her  mind — the  dread  that  he 
was  forgetting  her.  If  not,  why  did  he  not  seek  her 
out,  at  least  reassure  himself  with  his  own  eyes  that 
she  was  still  alive  ?  And  she  had  to  look  steadily 
at  her  memory-pictures,  at  his  eyes,  and  the  set  of 
his  jaw,  to  feel  at  all  hopeful  that  he  was  remember 
ing,  was  living  his  real  life  for  her. 

****** 

Three  weeks  after  Emily's  departure,  on  a  Thurs 
day  night,  Stilson  left  his  assistant  in  charge  and 
went  home  at  eleven.  As  he  entered  his  house — 
in  West  Seventy-third  street  near  the  river — he  saw 
strange  wraps  on  the  table  in  the  entrance  hall, 
heard  voices  in  the  drawing-room.  He  went  on 
upstairs.  As  he  was  hurrying  into  evening  dress  he 
suddenly  paused,  put  on  a  dressing-gown,  and  went 
along  the  hall.  He  gently  turned  the  knob  of  a 
door  at  the  end  and  entered.  There  was  a  dim 
light,  as  in  the  hall,  and  he  could  at  once  make  out 
all  the  objects  in  the  room. 

He  crossed  to  the  little  bed,  and  stood  looking 
down  at  Mary — her  yellow  hair  in  a  coil  on  top  of 
her  head,  one  small  hand  clinched  and  thrust  be 
tween  the  pillow  and  her  cheek,  the  other  lying 
white  and  limp  upon  the  coverlid.  He  stood  there 


294    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

several  minutes  without  motion.  When  he  reap 
peared  in  the  bright  light  of  his  dressing-room,  his 
face  was  calm,  a  complete  change  from  its  dark  and 
drawn  expression  of  a  few  minutes  before. 

He  was  soon  dressed,  and  descended  to  the  draw 
ing-room.  Like  the  hall,  like  the  whole  house,  like 
its  mistress,  this  room  was  rather  gaudy,  but  not 
offensive  or  tasteless.  The  most  conspicuous  ob 
jects  in  its  decoration  were  two  pictures.  One  was 
a  big  photograph  of  a  slim,  ethereal-looking  girl — 
the  dancer  he  had  loved  and  married.  She  was 
dressed  to  reveal  all  those  charms  of  youth  appar 
ently  just  emerging  from  childhood — a  bouquet  of 
budding  flowers  fresh  from  the  garden  in  the  early 
morning.  The  other  was  a  portrait  of  her  by  a 
distinguished  artist — the  face  and  form  of  the 
famous  dancer  of  the  day.  The  face  was  older  and 
bolder,  with  the  sleepy  sensuousness  and  sadness 
that  characterised  her  now.  The  neck  and  arms 
were  bare  ;  and  the  translucent  and  clinging  gown, 
aided  by  the  pose,  offered,  yet  refused,  a  view  of 
every  line  of  her  figure. 

Marguerite  was  sitting  almost  under  the  portrait ; 
on  the  same  sofa  was  Victoria  Fenton,  looking  much 
as  when  Stilson  first  met  her — on  her  trip  to  America 
in  the  autumn  in  which  Emily  returned  from  Paris. 
She  still  had  to  the  unobservant  that  charm  of  "  the 
unawakened  " — as  if  there  were  behind  her  surface- 
beauty  not  good-natured  animalism,  but  a  soul 
awaiting  the  right  conjurer  to  rouse  it  to  conscious 
life. 


A    MAN    AND    A    "PAST."     295 

Marlowe  was  seated  on  the  arm  of  a  chair,  smok 
ing  a  cigarette.  He  was  dressed  carefully  as  always, 
and  in  the  latest  English  fashion.  He  had  an  air 
of  prosperity  and  contented  indifference.  His  once 
keen  face  was  somewhat  fat  and,  taken  with  his 
eyes  and  mouth,  suggested  that  his  wife's  cardinal 
weakness  had  infected  him.  Stilson  was  late  and 
they  went  at  once  to  supper — Marlowe  and  Miss 
Fenton  had  been  invited  for  supper  because  that 
was  the  only  time  convenient  for  all  these  night- 
workers. 

"  You  are  having  a  great  success  ?  "  said  Stilson 
to  Victoria.  She  was  exhibiting  at  the  Lyceum  in 
one  of  Joan's  plays  which  had  been  partly  rewrit 
ten  by  Marlowe. 

"  Yes — the  Americans  are  good  to  me — so  gen 
erous  and  friendly,"  replied  Victoria.  "  Of  course 
the  play  is  poor.  I  couldn't  have  done  anything 
with  it  if  George  hadn't  made  it  over  so  cleverly." 

Stilson  smiled.  Banning,  the  dramatic  critic,  had 
told  him  that  her  part  was  beyond  Miss  Fenton,  and 
that  only  her  stage-presence  and  magnetic  voice 
saved  her  from  failure.  "  You  players  must  have 
a  mournful  time  of  it  with  these  stupid  playwrights," 
he  said  with  safe  sarcasm. 

.  "You  can't  imagine!"  Victoria  flung  out  her 
long,  narrow  white  hand  in  a  stage-gesture  of  de 
spair.  "  And  they  are  so  ungrateful  after  we  have 
created  their  characters  for  them  and  have  given 
them  reputation  and  fortune." 

Stilson  noted  that  Marlowe  was  listening  with  a 


296    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

faint  sneer.  His  manner  towards  his  wife  was  a 
surface-politeness  that  too  carelessly  concealed  his 
estimate  of  her  mental  limitations.  Stilson's  man 
ner  toward  "  Miss  Feronia " — he  called  her  that 
more  often  than  he  called  her  Marguerite — was 
almost  distant  courtesy,  the  manner  of  one  who 
tenaciously  maintains  an  impenetrable  \vall  between 
himself  and  another  whose  relations  to  him  would 
naturally  be  of  the  closest  intimacy.  And  while 
Victoria  was  self-absorbed,  obviously  never  ques 
tioning  that  her  husband  was  her  admirer  and 
devoted  lover,  Marguerite  was  nervously  attentive 
to  Stilson's  words  and  looks,  at  once  delighted  and 
made  ill-at-ease  by  his  presence. 

Her  eyes  were  by  turns  brilliant  and  stupidly 
dull.  Either  a  stream  of  words  was  issuing  from 
between  her  shut  teeth  or  her  lids  were  drooped 
and  she  seemed  to  be  falling  asleep.  Marlowe  rec 
ognised  the  morphine-eater  and  thought  he  under 
stood  why  Stilson  was  gloomy  and  white.  Victoria 
ate,  Marguerite  talked,  and  the  two  men  listlessly 
smoked.  At  the  first  opportunity  they  moved  to 
gether  and  Marlowe  began  asking  about  the  Deuio. 
crat  and  his  acquaintances  there. 

"  And  what  has  become  of  Miss  Bromfield  ?  "  he 
asked,  after  many  other  questions. 

"  She's  gone  to  a  magazine,"  replied  Stilson,  his 
voice  straining  to  be  colourless.  But  Marlowe  did 
not  note  the  tone  and  instantly  his  wife  interrupted  : 

"  Yes,  what  has  become  of  Miss  Bromfield — 
didn't  I  hear  George  asking  after  her?  You  know, 


A    MAN    AND    A    "PAST."     297 

Mr.  Stilson,  I  took  George  a\vay  from  her.  Poor 
thing,  it  must  have  broken  her  heart  to  lose  him." 
And  she  vented  her  empty  affected  stage-laugh.. 

Colour  flared  in  the  faces  of  both  the  men,  and 
Stilson  went  to  the  open  fire  and  began  stirring  it 
savagely. 

"  Pray  don't  think  I  encouraged  my  wife  to  that 
idea,"  Marlowe  said,  apparently  to  Marguerite. 
"  It's  one  of  her  fixed  delusions." 

Victoria  laughed  again.  "  Oh,  Kilboggan  told 
me  all  about  you  two — in  Paris  and  down  at  Monte 
Carlo.  He  hears  everything.  I  forgot  it  until  you 
spoke  her  name.  'Pasts'  don't  interest  me." 

Marlowe  flushed  angrily  and  his  voice  was  tense 
with  convincing  indignation  as  he  said,  "  I  beg  you, 
Victoria,  not  to  put  Miss  Bromfield  in  this  false 
light.  No  one  but  a — a  Kilboggan  would  have 
concocted  and  spread  such  a  story  about  such  a 
woman." 

His  tone  forbade  further  discussion,  and  there 
was  a  brief,  embarrassed  silence.  Then  Marguerite 
went  rattling  on  again.  Stilson  came  back  to  the 
table  and  lit  a  cigarette  with  elaborate  and  delib 
erate  care.  Marlowe  continued  to  stare  to  the 
front,  his  face  expressionless,  but  his  eyes  taking  in 
Stilson's  expression  without  seeming  to  do  so. 
They  were  talking  again  presently,  but  each  was 
constrained  toward  the  other.  Marlowe  knew  that 
Stilson  was  suspecting  him,  but,  beyond  being 
flattered  by  the  tribute  to  his  former  "  gallantry," 
he  did  not  especially  care — had  he  not  said  all  that 


298     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

he  honourably  could  say?  Emily,  not  he,  had 
insisted  upon  secrecy. 

As  for  Stilson,  his  brain  seemed  to  be  submerged 
in  a  plunge  of  boiling  blood.  Circumstances  of 
Marlowe's  and  Emily's  relations  rose  swiftly  one 
upon  another,  all  linking  into  proof.  "  How  can  I 
have  been  so  blind  ?  "  he  thought. 

The  Marlowes  did  not  linger  after  supper.  Mar 
guerite  went  to  bed  and  Stilson  shut  himself  in  his 
own  suite.  He  unlocked  and  opened  a  drawer  in 
the  table  in  his  study.  He  drew  from  under 
several  bundles  of  papers  the  sketch  of  Emily 
which  the  Democrat  had  reproduced  with  her  despatch 
from  the  Furnaceville  strike.  He  looked  contempt 
and  hate  at  the  dreamy,  strong  yet  sweet,  young 
face.  "  So  you  are  Marlowe's  cast-off  ? "  he  said 
with  a  sneer.  "And  I  was  absurd  enough — to 
believe  in  you — in  any  one." 

He  flung  the  picture  into  the  fire.  Then  he  sat  in 
the  big  chair,  his  form  gradually  collapsing  and  his 
face  taking  on  that  expression  of  misery  which 
seemed  natural  to  its  deep  lines  and  strong  features. 

"  And  when  Mary  grows  up,"  he  said  aloud, 
"  no  doubt  she  too — '  But  he  did  not  clearly  finish 
the  thought.  He  shrank  ashamed  from  the  stain 
with  which  he  in  his  unreasoning  anguish  had 
smirched  that  white  innocence. 

After  a  while  he  reached  into  the  fireplace  and 
took  from  the  dead  coals  in  the  corner  the  cinder  of 
the  picture.  Very  carefully  he  drew  it  out  and 
dropped  it  into  an  envelope.  That  he  sealed  and 
put  away  in  the  drawer. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

TWO  AND  A  TRIUMPH. 

BUT   Stilson's  image  of  her  was  no  longer 
clear  and  fine ;  and  in  certain  lights,  or, 
rather,  shadows,   it  seemed   to   have  a 
sinister  unloveliness.     He  assured  him 
self   that  he  felt  toward  her  as  before. 
But — he  respected  her  with  a  reservation  ;  he  loved 
her  with   a    doubt ;   he    believed   in   her — did   he 
believe  in  her  at  all?     He  was  continually  regilding 
his  idol,  which   persistently  refused  to  retain   the 
gilt. 

After  many  days  and  many  nights  of  storms  he 
went  to  the  Park  one  morning,  and  for  two  hours, — 
or,  until  there  was  no  chance  of  her  coming — he 
walked  up  and  down  near  the  Seventy-second  street 
entrance.  He  returned  the  second  morning  and 
the  third.  As  he  was  pacing  mechanically,  like  a 
sentry,  he  saw  her — her  erect,  graceful  figure,  her 
red-brown  hair  that  grew  so  beautifully  about  her 
brow  and  her  ears ;  then  her  face,  small  and  deli 
cate,  the  skin  very  smooth  and  pale — circles  under 
her  violet  eyes.  At  sight  of  him  there  came  a 
sudden  gleam  from  those  eyes,  like  an  electric 
spark,  and  then  a  look  of  intense  anxiety. 

"You  are  ill?"  she  said,  "Or  there  is  some 
trouble  ?  " 


300    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

"  I've  been  very  restless  of  late — sleeping  badly," 
he  replied,  evasively.  "  And  you  ?  " 

They  had  turned  into  a  side  path  to  a  bench 
where  they  would  not  be  disturbed.  They  looked 
each  at  the  other,  only  to  look  away  instantly. 
"  Oh,  I've  worked  too  hard  and — I  fancy  I've  been 
too  much  alone."  Emily  spoke  carelessly,  as  of 
something  in  the  past  that  no  longer  matters. 

"Alone,"  he  repeated.  "Alone."  When  his 
eyes  met  hers,  neither  could  turn  away.  And  on  a 
sudden  impulse  he  caught  her  in  his  arms.  "  My 
dear,  my  dear  love,"  he  exclaimed.  And  he  held 
her  close  against  him  and  pressed  her  cheek  against 
his. 

"  I  thought  you  would  never  come,"  she  mur 
mured.  "  How  I  have  reproached  you  !  " 

He  only  held  her  the  closer  for  answer.  And 
there  was  a  long  pause  before  he  said  :  "  I  can't 
let  you  go.  I  can't.  Oh,  Emily,  my  Emily — yes, 
mine,  mine — I've  loved  you  so  long — you  know  it, 
do  you  not  ?  You've  been  the  light  of  the  world  to 
me — the  first  light  I've  seen  since  I  was  old  enough 
to  know  light  from  darkness.  And  when  you  go, 
the  light  goes.  And  in  the  dark  the  doubts  come." 

"  Doubts  ?  "  she  said,  drawing  away  far  enough 
to  look  at  him.  "But  how  can  you  doubt?  You 
must  know." 

11  And  I  do  know  when  I  see  you.  But  when  I'm 
in  the  dark  and  breathing  the  poison  of  my  own 
mind — Forgive  me.  Don't  ask  me  to  explain,  but 
forgive  me.  Even  if  I  had  the  right  to  be  here,  the 


TWO    AND    A    TRIUMPH.    301 

right  to  say  what  I've  been  saying,  still  I'd  be  un 
fit.  How  you  would  condemn  me,  if  you  knew." 

"  I  don't  wish  to  know,  dear,  if  you'd  rather  not 
tell  me,'*  she  said  gently.  "  And  you  have  a  right 
to  be  here.  And  no  matter  what  you  have  been  or 
are,  I'd  not  condemn  you."  Her  voice  sank  very 
low.  "  I'd  still  love  you." 

"  You'd  have  had  to  live  my  life  to  know  what 
those  last  words  mean  to  me,"  he  said,  "how  happy 
they  make  me." 

"  But  I  know  better  than  you  think,"  she  an 
swered.  "  For  my  life  has  not  been  sheltered,  as 
are  the  lives  of  most  women.  It  has  had  tempta 
tions  and  defeats." 

He  turned  his  eyes  quickly  away,  but  not  so 
quickly  that  she  failed  to  catch  the  look  of  fear  in 
them.  "  What  are  you  thinking  ?  "  she  asked 
earnestly.  "  Dear,  if  there  are  doubts,  may  they 
not  come  again  ?  I  saw  in  your  eyes  just  then — 
what  was  it  ?  " 

"  Do  not  ask  me.  I  must  fight  that  alone  and 
conquer  it." 

"  No — you  must  tell  me,"  she  said,  resolutely. 
"  I  feel  that  I  have  a  right  to  know." 

"  It  was  nothing — a  lie  that  I  heard.  I'd  not 
shame  myself  and  insult  you  by  repeating  it." 

He  looked  at  her  appealingly,  saw  that  she  was 
trembling.  "  You  know  that  I  did  not  believe  it  ?  " 
he  said,  catching  her  hand.  But  she  drew  away. 

"  Was  it  about  me  and — Marlowe  ?"  she  asked. 

"  But  I  knew  that  it  was  false,"  he  protested. 


302    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

She  looked  at  him  unflinchingly.  "  It  was  true," 
she  said.  "  We  were — everything — each  to  the 
other." 

He  sat  in  a  stupor.  At  last  he  muttered  :  "  Why 
didn't  you  deceive  me?  Doubt  was  better  than — 
than  this." 

"  But  why  should  I  ?  I  don't  regret  what  I  did. 
It  has  helped  to  make  me  what  I  am." 

"  Don't— don't,"  he  implored.  "  I  admit  that 
that  is  true.  But — you  are  making  me  suffer — hor 
ribly.  You  forget  that  I  love  you." 

"  Love  !  "  There  was  a  strange  sparkle  in  her  eyes 
and  she  raised  her  head  haughtily.  "  Is  that  what 
you  call  love  ?  "  And  she  decided  that  she  would 
wait  before  telling  him  that  she  had  been  Marlowe's 
wife. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  it  is  not  what  I  call  love. 
But  it  is  a  part  of  love — the  lesser  part,  no  doubt, 
but  still  a  part.  I  love  you  in  all  the  ways  a  man 
can  love  a  woman.  And  I  love  you  because  you 
are  a  complete  woman,  capable  of  inspiring  love  in 
every  way  in  which  a  woman  appeals  to  a  man. 
And  it  hurts  me — this  that  you've  told  me." 

"  But  you,  your  life,  what  you've  been  through — 
I  honour  you  for  it,  love  you  the  more  for  it.  It  has 
made  me  know  how  strong  you  are.  I  love  you 
best  for  the  battles  you've  lost." 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  I  know  that  those  who  have 
lived  and  learned  and  profited  are  higher  and 
stronger  than  the  innocent,  the  ignorant.  But  I 
wish — "  He  hesitated,  then  went  on  doggedly,  "  I'd 


TWO    AND    A    TRIUMPH.     303 

be  lying  to  you  if  I  did  not  say  that  I  wish  I  did 
not  know  this." 

"  Then  you'd  rather  I  had  deceived  you — evaded 
or  told  a  falsehood." 

"No,"  he  said  with  emphasis,  and  he  looked  at 
her  steadily  and  proudly.  "  I  can't  imagine  you 
telling  me  a  falsehood  or  making  any  pretense  what 
ever.  At  least  I  can  honestly  say  that  after  the 
first  purely  physical  impulse  of  anger,  I  didn't  for 
an  instant  suspect  you  of  any  baseness.  And  when 
ever  an  ugly  thought  about  you  has  shown  itself  in 
my  mind,  it  has  been — choked  to  death  before  it 
had  a  chance  to  speak." 

"  I  know  that,"  she  said,  "  I  know  it,  dear."  And 
she  put  her  hand  on  his. 

"  And — I  wouldn't  have  you  different  from  what 
you  are.  You  are  a  certain  kind  of  human  being — 
my  kind — the  kind  I  admire  through  and  through — 
yes,  through  and  through.  And — you  are  the  only 
one  of  the  kind  in  all  this  world,  so  far  as  I  have 
seen.  I  don't  care  by  what  processes  you  became 
what  you  are.  You  say  you  love  me  for  the  battles 
I've  lost.  Honestly,  would  you  like  to  hear,  even 
like  to  have  me  tell  you,  in  detail,  all  that  I've  been 
through?  Aren't  you  better  satisfied  just  to  know 
the  results?" 

"  Yes,"  she  admitted,  and  she  remembered  how 
she  had  hated  Marguerite  Feronia  that  day  at  the 
Astor  House,  how  she  never  saw  a  lithograph  of 
her  staring  from  a  dead  wall  or  a  bill  board  or  a 
shop  window  that  she  did  not  have  a  pang. 


304    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

"  Then  how  can  you  blame  me  ?  "  he  urged. 

"I  —  I  guess —  I  don't,"  she  said  with  a  little 
smile. 

"  But  I  blame  myself,"  he  went  on.  "  I  —yes,  I, 
the  immaculate,  arraigned  you  at  the  bar  for  trial 
and " 

"  Found  me  guilty  and  recommended  me  to  the 
mercy  of  the  court?" 

"  No — not  quite  so  bad  as  that,"  he  replied. 
"  But  don't  think  I'm  not  conscious  of  the  colossal 
impudence  of  the  performance — one  human  being 
sitting  in  judgment  on  another!  " 

"  It's  done  every  minute,"  she  said  cheerfully. 
"And  we  make  good  judges  of  each  other.  All  we 
have  to  do  is  to  look  inside  ourselves,  and  we 
don't  need  to  listen  to  the  evidence  before  saying 
*  Guilty.'  But  what  was  the  verdict  at  my 
trial?" 

"  It  hadn't  gone  very  far  before  we  changed 
places — you  became  the  accuser  and  I  went  into  the 
prisoner's  pen.  And  I  could  only  plead  guilty  to 
the  basest  form  of  that  base  passion,  jealousy.  I 
couldn't  deny  that  you  were  noble  and  good,  that 
it  was  unthinkable  that  you  could  be  guilty  of  any 
thing  low.  I  was  compelled  to  admit  that  if  you 
had  been — married — " 

"  Was  any  evidence  admitted  on  that  point  ?  " 
she  asked  with  a  sly  smile  at  the  corners  of  her 
mouth. 

"  No,"  he  said,  then  gave  her  a  quick,  eager 
glance.  At  sight  of  the  quizzical  expression  in 


TWO    AND    A    TRIUMPH.     305 

her  eyes,  he  blushed  furiously  but  did  not  look 
away. 

"  You  know,"  he  said,  and  he  put  his  arm  about 
her  shoulders,  "  that  I  love  you  in  the  way  you 
wish  to  be  loved.  I  don't  deny  that  I'm  not  very 
consistent.  My  theory  is  sound,  but — I'm  only  a 
human  man,  and  I'd  rather  my  theory  were  not  put 
to  the  test  in  your  case." 

"  But  it  has  been  put  to  the  test,"  she  replied, 
"  and  it  has  stood  the  test."  And  then  she  told 
him  the  whole  story. 

He  called  her  brave.  "  No  one  but  you,  only 
you,  would  have  had  the  courage  to  end  it  when 
you  did — away  off  there,  alone." 

"  I  thought  it  was  brave  myself  at  the  time,"  she 
said.  "Then  afterwards  I  noticed  that  it  would 
have  taken  more  courage  to  keep  on.  Any  woman 
would  have  freed  herself  if  she  had  been  indepen 
dent  as  I  was,  and  with  no  conventionalities  to  vio 
late." 

Stilson  said  thoughtfully  after  a  pause  :  "  It  did 
not  enter  my  head  that  you  had  been  married. 
And  even  now,  the  fact  only  makes  the  whole 
thing  more  vague  and  unreal." 

"  It  took  two  minutes  to  be  married,"  replied 
Emily,  "  and  less  to  be  divorced — my  lawyer  wrote 
proudly  that  it  was  a  record-breaking  case  for  that 
court,  though  I  believe  they've  done  better  else 
where  in  Dakota." 

"  What  a  mockery  !  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  so.     The  marriage  isn't  made 


306    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

by  the  contract  and  the  divorce  isn't  made  by  the  , 
court.  The  mere  formalities  that  recognise  the  I 
facts  may  be  necessary,  but  they  can't  be  too  [ 
brief." 

"  But  it  sets  a  bad  example,  encourages  people  to 
take  flippant  views  of  serious  matters." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Emily  doubtingly,  "do  the 
divorced  people  set  so  bad  an  example  as  those  who 
live  together  hating  each  the  other,  degrading  them 
selves,  and  teaching  their  children  to  quarrel.  And 
haven't  flippant  people  always  been  flippant,  and 
won't  they  always  continue  to  be  ?  " 

"  It  may  be  so,  but  men  and  women  ought  to 
know  what  they  are  about  before  they — "  Stilson 
paused  and  suddenly  remembered.  "  I  shan't  finish 
that  sentence,"  he  said,  with  a  short  laugh.  "  I 
don't  know  what  you  know  about  me,  and  I  don't 
want  to.  I  can't  talk  of  my  affairs  where  they  con 
cern  other  people.  But  I  feel  that  I  must " 

"  You  need  not,  dear,"  said  Emily.  "  I  think  I 
understand  how  you  are  situated.  And — I — I — 
Well,  if  the  time  ever  comes  when  things  are  dif 
ferent,  then — "  She  dropped  her  serious  tone — 
"  Meanwhile,  I'm  '  by  the  grace  of  God,  free  and 
independent '  and " 

"  I  love  you,"  he  said,  the  hot  tears  standing  in 
his  eyes  as  he  kissed  her  hand.  "  Ever  since  the 
day  you  came  back  from  the  mines,  I've  known  that 
I  loved  you.  And  ever  since  then,  it's  been  you, 
always  you.  The  first  thought  in  the  morning,  the 
last  thought  at  night,  and  all  day  long  whenever 


TWO    AND    A    TRIUMPH.    307 

I  looked  up — you,  shining  up  there  where  I  never 
hope  to  reach  you.  Not  shining  for  me,  but,  thank 
God,  shining  on  me,  my  Emily." 

"  And  now — I've  come  down."  She  was  laughing 
at  him  in  a  loving  way.  "  I'm  no  longer  your  star 
but — only  a  woman." 

"  Only  a  woman  !  "  He  drew  a  long  breath  and 
his  look  made  her  blood  leap  and  filled  her  with  a 
sudden  longing  both  to  laugh  and  to  cry. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

WHERE  PAIN  IS  PLEASURE. 


f  ~"^HAT  fall  and  winter  Emily  and  Stilson 

met  often  in  the  walk  winding  through 
the  Park  from  Seventy-second  street  to 
.  •  the  Plaza.     Usually  it  was  on  Wednes 

day  morning — his  "  lazy  day  "  ;  always 
it  was  "  by  accident."  Each  time  they  separated 
they  knew  they  were  soon  to  meet  again.  But  the 
chance  character  of  their  meetings — once  in  a  while 
they  did  miss  each  the  other — maintained  a  moral 
fiction  which  seemed  to  them  none  the  less  vital  to 
real  morals  because  it  was  absurd. 

What  with  their  work  and  meetings  to  look  for 
ward  to  and  meetings  to  look  back  upon,  time  did 
not  linger  with  them.  Often  they  were  happy. 
Rarely  were  they  miserable,  and  then,  instead  of 
yielding  to  despair  and  luxuriating  in  grief  and  woe, 
they  fought  valiantly  to  recover  the  tranquillity 
which  would  enable  them  to  enjoy  what  they  might 
have  and  to  be  mutually  helpful.  They  were  not 
sentimental  egotists.  They  would  have  got  little 
sympathy  from  those  who  weep  in  theatres  and 
blister  the  pages  of  tragic  fiction.  Neither  tried  to 
pose  before  the  other  or  felt  called  upon  to  tickle 
his  own  and  the  other's  vanity  with  mournful  looks 


PAIN    IS    PLEASURE.        309 

and  outbursts.  They  loved  not  themselves,  but 
each  the  other. 

They  suffered  much  in  a  simple,  human  way — 
not  the  worked-up  anguish  of  the  "  strong  situation," 
but  just  such  lonely  heartaches  as  visit  most  lives 
and  make  faces  sober  and  smiles  infrequent  and 
laughter  reluctant,  as  early  youth  is  left  behind. 
And  they  carefully  hid  their  suffering  each  from  the 
other  with  the  natural  considerateness  of  unselfish 
love. 

Once  several  weeks  passed  in  which  she  did  not 
"happen"  to  meet  him.  She  grew  rapidly  melan 
choly  and  resentful  of  the  narrowness  of  the  sources 
and  limits  of  her  happiness.  "  He  is  probably  ill — 
very  ill,"  she  thought,  "  And  how  outside  of  his 
life  I  am  !  I  could  not  go  to  him,  no  matter  what 
was  happening."  She  called  up  the  Democrat  office 
on  the  telephone  at  an  hour  when  he  was  never 
there.  The  boy  who  answered  said  he  was  out. 
"When  will  he  be  in?"  "  I  cannot  tell  you.  He 
has  been  away  for  several  days."  "  Is  he  ill  ?  "  she 
ventured.  No,  he  was  not  ill — just  away  on  busi 
ness. 

She  read  in  the  Evening  Post  the  next  night  that 
Marguerite  Feronia  was  still  confined  to  the  house, 
suffering  with  nervous  prostration.  "  She  has  been 
ill  frequently  during  the  past  year,"  said  the  Post 
"  and  it  is  reported  that  it  will  be  long  before  she 
returns  to  the  stage,  if  ever."  Emily  at  once  under 
stood  and  reproached  herself  for  her  selfishness. 
What  must  Stilson  be  enduring,  shut  in  with  the 


310    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

cause  and  centre  of  his  wretchedness — that  unfor 
tunate  woman  through  whom  he  was  expiating,  not 
his  crimes  but  his  follies.  "  How  wicked  life  is," 
she  thought  bitterly.  "  How  intelligent  its  malice 
seems.  To  punish  folly  more  severely  than  crime, 
and  ignorance  more  savagely  than  either — it  is 
infamous  !  "  And  as  she  brooded  over  his  wrecked 
life  and  her  aloneness,  her  courage  failed  her.  "  It 
isn't  worth  while  to  go  on,"  she  said.  "  And  I  ask 
so  little — such  a  very  little  !  " 

When  she  met  him  in  the  Park  again,  his  face 
was  as  despondent  as  hers.  They  went  to  a  bench 
in  one  of  the  by-paths.  It  was  spring,  and  the  scene 
was  full  of  the  joyous  beginnings  of  grass  and  leaves 
and  flowers  and  nests. 

"  Once  there  was  a  coward,"  he  began  at  last. 
"  A  selfish  coward  he  was.  He  had  tumbled  down 
his  life  into  ruins  and  was  sitting  among  theiru 
And  another  human  being  came  that  way.  She 
was  brave  and  strong  and  had  a  true  woman's  true 
soul — generosity,  sympathy,  a  beautiful  unconde- 
scending  compassion.  And  this  coward  seized  her 
and  tried  to  chain  her  among  his  ruins.  He  gave 
nothing — he  had  nothing  to  give.  He  took  every 
thing — youth,  beauty,  a  splendid  capacity  for  love 
and  happiness."  He  paused.  "  Oh,  it  was  base  !  " 
he  burst  out.  "  But  in  the  end  he  realised  and — he 
has  come  to  his  senses." 

"  But  she  would  not  go,"  said  Emily  softly. 

"  He  drove  her  away,"  he  persisted.  "  He  saw  to 
it  that  she  went  back  to  life  and  hope.  And  when 


PAIN    IS    PLEASURE.        311 

she  saw  that  he  would  have  her  go,  she  did  not  try 
to  prevent  him  from  being  true  to  his  better  self. 
She  went  for  his  sake." 

"  But  listen  to  me"  she  said.  "  Once  there  was  a 
woman,  young  in  years,  but  compelled  to  learn  a 
great  deal  very  quickly.  And  fate  gave  her  four 
principal  teachers.  The  first  taught  her  to  value 
freedom  and  self  respect — taught  it  by  almost  cost 
ing  her  both.  The  second  taught  her  that  love  is 
more  than  being  in  love  with  love — and  that  lesson 
almost  cost  her  her  happiness  for  life.  The  third 
teacher  taught  her  that  love  is  more  than  a  blind, 
;  reckless  passion.  And  then,  just  when  she  could 
understand  it,  perhaps  just  in  time  to  prevent  the 
third  lesson  from  costing  her  her  all — then  came," 
she  gave  him  a  swift,  vivid  glance  "her  fourth 
teacher.  He  taught  her  love,  what  it  really  is — 
that  it  is  the  heart  of  a  life.  The  heart  of  her 
life." 

He  was  not  looking  at  her,  but  his  eyes  were 
shining. 

"  Then,"  she  went  on,  "  one  day  this  man — un 
selfishly  but,  oh,  so  blindly — told  the  woman  that 
because  fate  was  niggard,  he  would  no  longer  accept 
what  he  might  have,  would  no  longer  let  her  have 
what  meant  life  to  her.  He  said :  '  Go — out  into 
the  dark.  Be  alone  again.' ' 

She  paused  and  turned  toward  him.  "  He 
thought  he  was  just  and  kind,"  she  said.  "  And  he 
was  brave  ;  but  not  just  or  kind.  He  was  blind  and 
— cruel ;  yes,  very  cruel." 


312     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

"  It  can't  be  true,"  he  said.  "  No — it  is  impulse — 
pity — a  sacrifice." 

She  saw  that  his  words  were  addressed  to  himself 
in  reproach  for  listening  to  her.  "  It  was  unworthy 
of  him,"  she  went  on,  "  unworthy  of  his  love  for  her. 
How  could  he  imagine  that  only  he  knew  what 
love  is — the  happiness  of  its  pain,  almost  happier 
than  the  happiness  of  its  joy  ?  Why  should  I  have 
sought  freedom,  independence,  if  not  in  order  that 
I  may  use  my  life  as  I  please,  use  it  to  win — and 
keep— the  best  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  think,"  he  said  un 
certainly.  "  You've  made  it  impossible  for  me  to 
do  as  I  intended — at  present." 

Emily's  spirits  rose — in  those  days  the  present 
was  her  whole  horizon.  "  Don't  be  selfish,"  she 
said  in  a  tone  of  raillery.  "  Think  of  me,  once  in 
a  while.  And  please  try  to  think  of  me  as  capable 
of  knowing  my  own  mind.  I  don't  need  to  be  told 
what  I  want." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  with  mock  humil 
ity.  "  I  shall  never  be  so  impertinent  again." 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE  HIGHWAY  OF  HAPPINESS. 

EMILY  often  rebelled.    Her  common  sense 
was  always  catching  her  at  demanding, 
with  the  irrational  arrogance  of  human 
vanity,  that  the  course  of  the  universe 
be  altered  and  adjusted  to  her  personal 
desires.     But  these  moods  came  only  after  she  and 
Stilson  had  not  been  together   for   a   longer  time 
than  usual.     When   she   saw   him   again,    saw   the 
look  in  his  eyes — love  great  enough  to  deny  itself 
the  delight  of  expression  and  enjoyment — she  forgot 
her  complaints  in  the  happiness  of  loving  such  a  man, 
of  being  loved  by  him.  "  It  might  be  so  much  worse, 
unbearably    worse,"   she   thought.     "  I   might  lose 
what  I  have.     And  then  how  vast  it  would  seem." 
Stilson  always  felt  the  inrush  of   a   dreary   tide 
when  they  separated.     One  day  the  tide  seemed  to 
be  sweeping  away  his   courage.     Unhappiness  be 
hind  him  in  the  home  that  was  no   longer   made 
endurable     by     Mary's    presence,    now    that    her 
mother's  condition  compelled  him  to  keep  her  at 
the    convent ;    contention,  the  necessity  of  saying 
and  doing  disagreeable  things,  ahead  of  him  at  the 
office — "  I  have  always  been  a  fool,"   he    thought, 
"  a  sentimental  fool.     No  wonder  life  lays  on  the 


314     A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

lash."  But  he  gathered  a  bundle  of  newspapers 
from  the  stand  at  Fifty-ninth  Street  and  Madison 
Avenue  and,  seating  himself  in  the  corner  of  the 
car,  strapped  on  his  mental  harness  and  began  to 
tug  and  strain  at  his  daily  task — "  like  a  dumb  ox," 
he  muttered. 

He  was  outwardly  in  his  worst  mood — the  very 
errand  boy  knew  that  it  was  not  a  good  day  to  ask 
favours.  A  man  to  whom  he  had  loaned  money 
came  in  to  pay  it  and,  leaving,  said :  "  God  will 
bless  you."  Stilson  sat  staring  at  a  newspaper. 
"  God  will  bless  me,"  he  repeated  bitterly.  "  I 
shall  have  some  new  misfortune  before  the  day  is 
over." 

And  late  that  afternoon  a  boy  brought  him  a  note 
— he  recognised  the  handwriting  of  the  address  as 
Marguerite's.  "  The  misfortune,"  he  thought,  tear 
ing  it  open.  He  read  : 

This  won't  be  delivered  to  you  until  I'm  out  at  sea.  I'm  go 
ing  abroad.  You'll  not  see  me  again.  I'm  only  in  the  way — 
a  burden  to  you  and  a  disgrace  to  Mary.  You'll  find  out  soon 
enough  how  I've  gone,  without  my  telling  you.  Perhaps  I'm 
crazy — I  never  did  have  much  self-control.  But  I'm  gone, 
and  gone  for  good,  and  you're  left  free  with  your  beloved 
Mary. 

I  know  you  hate  me  and  I  can't  stand  feeling  it  any  longer. 
I  couldn't  be  any  more  miserable,  no,  nor  you  either.  And  we 
may  both  be  happier.  I  never  loved  anybody  but  you — I  sup 
pose  I  still  love  you,  but  I  must  get  away  where  I  won't  feel  that 
I'm  always  being  condemned. 

Don't  think  I'm  blaming  you— I'm  not  so  crazy  as  that. 

Try  to  think  of  me  as  gently  as— no,  don't  think  of  me— 


HIGHWAY  OF  HAPPINESS.    315 

forget  me — teach  Mary  to  forget  me.  I'm  crying,  Robert,  as  I 
write  this.  But  then  I've  done  a  lot  of  that  since  I  realised 
that  not  even  for  your  sake  could  I  shake  off  the  curse  my  father 
put  on  me  before  I  was  born. 

Good-bye,  Robert.  Good-bye,  Mary.  I  put  the  ring — the  one 
you  gave  me  when  we  were  married — in  the  little  box  in  the 
top  drawer  of  your  chiffoniere  where  you  keep  your  scarf-pins. 
I  hope  I  shan't  live  long,  If  I  had  been  brave,  I'd  have  killed 
myself  long  ago. 

Good-bye, 

MARGUERITE. 

One  sentence  in  her  letter  blazed  before  his  mind 
— "  You'll  find  out  soon  enough  how  I've  gone, 
without  my  telling  you."  What  did  she  mean  ?  In 
her  half-crazed  condition  had  she  done  something 
that  would  be  notorious,  would  be  remembered 
against  Mary  ?  He  pressed  the  electric  button. 
"  Ask  Mr.  Vandewater  to  come  here  at  once, 
please,"  he  said  to  the  boy.  Vandewater,  the  dram 
atic  news  reporter,  hurried  in.  "  I'm  about  to  ask 
a  favour  of  you,  Vandewater,"  he  said  to  him,  "  and 
I  hope  you'll  not  speak  of  it.  Do  you  know  any 
one  at  the  Gold  and  Glory — well,  I  mean  ?  " 

"  Mayer,  the  press  agent,  and  I  are  pretty  close." 

"  Will  you  call  him  up  and  ask  him — tell  him  it's 
personal  and  private — what  he  knows  about  Miss 
Feronia's  movements  lately.  Use  this  telephone 
here." 

At  "  Miss  Feronia,"  Vandewater  looked  conscious 
and  nervous.  Like  all  the  newspaper  men,  he  knew 
of  the  "  romance  "  in  Stilson's  life,  and,  like  many 
of  the  younger  men,  he  admired  and  envied  him  be- 


A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

cause  of  the  fascinating  mystery  of  his  relations 
with  the  famous  dancer. 

The  Gold  and  Glory  was  soon  connected  with 
Stilson's  branch-telephone  and  he  was  impatiently 
listening  to  Vandewater's  part  of  the  conversation. 
Mayer  seemed  to  be  saying  a  great  deal,  and  Vande 
water's  questions  indicated  that  it  was  an  account 
of  some  unusual  happening.  After  ten  long  min 
utes,  Vandewater  hung  up  the  receiver  and  turned 
to  Stilson. 

"  I— I— it  is  hard  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Stilson,"  he 
began  with  mock  hesitation. 

"  No  nonsense,  please."  Stilson  shook  his  head 
with  angry  impatience.  "  I  must  know  every  fact 
— every  fact — and  quickly." 

"  Mayer  says  she  sailed  on  the  Ftirst  Bismarck 
to-day — that  she's — she's  taken  a  man  named  Court- 
leigh,  an  Englishman — a  young  fellow  in  the  chorus. 
Mayer  says  she  sent  a  note  to  the  manager,  explain 
ing  that  she  was  going  abroad  for  good,  and  that 
Courtleigh  came  smirking  in  and  told  the  other 
part.  He  says  Courtleigh  is  a  cheap  scoundrel,  and 
that  her  note  read  as  if  she  were  not  quite  right  in 
her  head." 

"Yes — and  what's  Mayer  doing?  Is  he  telling 
everybody  ?  Is  he  going  to  use  it  as  an  advertise 
ment  for  the  house?" 

Vandewater  hesitated,  then  said  :  "  He's  not  giv 
ing  it  to  the  afternoon  papers.  He's  writing  it  up 
to  send  out  to-night  to  the  morning  papers." 

"  Um  !  "     Stilson  looked  grim,  savage.     "  Go  up 


HIGHWAY   OF   HAPPINESS.    317 

there,  please,  and  do  your  best  to  have  it  sup 
pressed." 

"  Yes."  Vandewater  was  swelling  with  mystery 
and  importance.  "  You  may  rely  on  me,  Mr.  Stil- 
son.  And  I  shall  respect  your  confidence." 

"  I  assume  that  you  are  a  gentleman,"  Stilson 
said  sarcastically.  He  had  taken  Vandewater  into 
his  confidence  because  he  had  no  choice,  and  he  had 
little  hope  of  his  being  able  to  hold  his  tongue. 
"  Thank  you.  Good  day." 

As  soon  as  he  was  alone  he  seated  himself  at  the 
telephone  and  began  calling  up  his  friends  or  ac 
quaintances  in  places  of  authority  on  the  newspa 
pers,  morning  and  evening.  Of  each  he  made  the 
same  request — "  If  a  story  comes  in  about  Mar 
guerite  Feronia,  will  you  see  that  it's  put  as  mildly 
as  possible,  if  you  must  print  it  ?  "  And  from  each 
he  got  an  assurance  that  the  story  would  be  "  taken 
care  of."  When  he  rose  wearily  after  an  hour  of 
telephoning,  he  had  done  all  that  could  be  done  to 
close  the  "  avenues  of  publicity."  He  locked  the 
door»of  his  office  and  flung  himself  down  at  his  desk, 
and  buried  his  face  in  his  arms. 

In  a  series  of  mournful  pictures  the  progress  of 
Marguerite  to  destruction  flashed  across  his  mind, 
one  tragedy  fading  into  the  next.  Youth,  beauty, 
joyousness,  sweetness,  sensibility,  fading,  fading, 
fading  until  at  last  he  saw  the  wretched,  broken, 
half-insane  woman  fling  herself  headlong  from  the 
precipice,  with  a  last  despairing  glance  backward  at 
all  that  her  curse  had  stripped  from  her. 


318    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

And  the  tears  tore  themselves  from  his  eyes. 
The  evil  in  her  was  blotted  out.  He  could  see  only 
the  Marguerite  who  had  loved  him,  had  saved  him, 
who  was  even  now  flying  because  to  her  diseased 
mind  it  seemed  best  for  her  to  go.  "  Poor  girl !  " 
he  groaned.  "  Poor  child  that  you  are !  " 

*  *  %  *  *  ,# 

Emily,  on  her  way  down-town  the  next  morning 
in  an  "L"  train,  happened  to  glance  at  the  news 
paper  which  the  man  in  the  next  seat  was  reading. 
It  was  the  Herald,  and  she  saw  a  two-column  pic 
ture  of  Marguerite.  She  read  the  bold  headlines  : 
"  Marguerite  Feronia,  ill.  The  Gold  and  Glory's 
great  dancer  goes  abroad,  never  to  return  to  the 
stage  or  the  country." 

She  left  the  train  at  the  next  station,  bought  a 
Herald  and  read : 

Among  the  passengers  on  the  Fiirst  Bismarck  yesterday  was 
Marguerite  Feronia,  who  for  more  years  than  it  would  be  kind 
to  enumerate  has  fascinated  the  gilded  youth  that  throng  the 
Gold  and  Glory  nightly.  Miss  Feronia  has  been  in  failing 
health  for  more  than  a  year.  Again  and  again  she  has  been 
compelled  to  disappoint  her  audiences.  At  last  she  realised 
that  she  was  making  a  hopeless  fight  against  illness  and  sud 
denly  made  up  her  mind  to  give  up.  She  told  no  one  of  her 
plans  until  the  last  moment.  In  a  letter  from  the  steamship  to 
the  manager  of  the  Gold  and  Glory  she  declared  that  she  would 
never  return  and  that  she  did  not  expect  to  live  long. 

The  account  was  brief  out  of  all  proportion  to 
the  headlines,  and  to  the  local  importance  of  the 
subject.  Emily  went  at  once  to  the  newspaper 
files  when  she  reached  her  office.  In  no  other  pa- 


HIGHWAY  OF  HAPPINESS.    319 

per  was  there  so  much  as  in  the  Herald.  She 
could  find  no  clue  to  the  mystery, 

"At  least  he  is  free,"  she  thought.  "And  that 
is  the  important  point.  At  least  he  is  free — we  are 
free." 

Although  she  repeated  this  again  and  again  and 
tried  to  rouse  herself  to  a  sense  of  the  joy  it  should 
convey,  she  continued  in  a  state  of  groping  depres 
sion. 

Toward  three  o'clock  came  a  telegram  from  Stil- 
son — "  Shall  you  be  at  home  this  evening?  Most 
anxious  to  see  you.  Please  answer,  Democrat 
office."  She  telegraphed  for  him  to  come,  and  her 
spirits  began  to  rise.  At  last  the  dawn  !  At  last 
the  day  !  And  her  eyes  were  sparkling  and  she 
was  so  gay  that  her  associates  noted  it,  and  "  the 
old  lady  "  confided  to  Mr.  Burnham  that  she  "  had 
been  wondering  how  much  longer  such  a  sweet, 
beautiful  girl  would  have  to  wait  before  some  man 
would  have  the  sense  to  propose  to  her."  Nor  was 
she  less  gay  at  heart  when  Stilson  was  shown  into 
her  little  drawing-room,  although  she  kept  it  out  of 
her  face — Marguerite's  departure  might  have  been 
sad. 

"  I  saw  it  in  the  Herald"  she  began. 

"  Then  I  needn't  tell  you."  He  seemed  old  and 
worn  and  gray — nearer  fifty  than  thirty-five.  "  I've 
come  to  say  good-bye." 

Emily  looked  at  him,  stupefied.  They  sat  in  si 
lence  a  long  time.  At  last  he  spoke  :  "  I  may  be 
gone — who  can  say  how  long?  Perhaps  it  will  be 


320      A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

best  to  keep  her  over  there.  I  don't  know — I  don't 
know,"  he  ended  drearily. 

Again  there  was  a  long  silence.  She  broke  it  : 
"  You — are — going — to — to  join  her?"  She  could 
hardly  force  the  words  from  her  lips. 

He  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  "  Of  course. 
What  else  can  I  do  ?  " 

Emily  sank  back  in  her  chair  and  covered  her 
face. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  asked.  "  What  did  you— why, 
you  didn't  think  I  would  desert  her  ?  " 

"  Oh — I — "  She  put  her  face  down  into  the 
bend  of  her  arm.  "  I  didn't — think — you'd  desert 
me"  she  murmured.  "  I — I  didn't  understand." 
She  faced  him  with  a  swift  movement.  "  How  can 
you  go  ?  "  she  exclaimed.  "  When  fate  clears  the 
way  for  you — when  this  woman  who  had  been  hang 
ing  like  a  great  weight  about  your  neck  suddenly 
cuts  herself  loose — then — Oh,  how  can  you  ?  Am 
I  nothing  in  your  life?  Is  my  happiness  nothing 
to  you?  Have  you  been  deceiving  yourself  about 
her  and— and  me  ?  "  She  turned  away  again.  "  I 
don't  know  what  I'm  saying,"  she  said  brokenly. 
"  I  don't  mean  to  reproach  you — only — I  had — I  had 
hoped— That's  all." 

The  French  clock  on  the  mantel  raised  its  swift 
little  voice  until  the  room  seemed  to  be  resound 
ing  with  a  clamorous  reminder  of  flying  time  and 
flying  youth  and  dying  hope.  When  he  spoke,  his 
voice  came  as  if  from  a  great  distance  and  out  of  a 
great  silence  and  calm. 


HIGHWAY   OF   HAPPINESS.    321 

"  It  has  been  eleven  years,"  he  said,  "  since  in 
folly  and  ignorance  I  threw  myself  into  the  depths — 
how  deep  you  will  never  know,  you  can  never  ima 
gine.  And  as  I  lay  there,  a  thing  so  vile  that  all 
who  knew  me  shrank  from  me  with  loathing — she 
came.  And  she  not  only  came,  but  she  staid.  She 
did  her  best  to  lift  me.  She  staid  until  I  drove  her 
away  with  curses  and — and  blows.  But  she  came 
again — and  again.  And  at  last  she  brought  the — 
the  little  girl- 
He  paused  to  steady  his  voice.  "And  I  took 
the  hand  of  the  child  and  she  held  its  other  hand, 
and  together  we  found  the  way  back — for  me.  And 
now — she  has  gone  out  among  strangers — enemies 
— gone  with  her  mind  all  awry.  She  will  be 
robbed,  abused,  abandoned,  she  will  suffer  cold  and 
hunger,  and  she  will  die  miserably — if  I  don't  go 
to  her." 

He  went  over  and  stood  beside  her.  "  Look  at 
me  !  "  he  commanded,  and  she  obeyed.  "  Low  as 
the  depth  was  from  which  she  brought  me  up,  it 
would  be  high  as  heaven  in  comparison  with  the 
depth  I'd  lie  in,  if  I  did  not  go.  And  I  say  to  you 
that  if  you  gave  me  the  choice,  told  me  you  would 
cut  me  off  from  you  forever  if  I  went — I  say  to 
you  that  still  I  would  go  !  " 

As  she  faced  him,  her  breath  came-  fast  and  her 
eyes  seemed  to  widen  until  all  of  her  except  them 
was  blotted  out  for  him.  "  I  understand,"  she 
said.  "  Yes — you  would  go — nothing  could  hold 
you.  And — that's  why  I — love  you." 


322    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

He  gave  a  long  sigh  of  relief  and  joy.  "  I  had 
thought  you  would  say  that,  when  I  knew  what  I 
must  do.  And  then — when  you  protested — I  was 
afraid.  Everything  crumbles  in  my  hands.  Even 
my  dreams  die  aborning." 

"  When  do  you  sail  ?  "  she  asked.     "  To-morrow  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I've  arranged  my  affairs.  I — I  look  to 
you  to  take  care  of  Mary.  There  is  no  one  else  to 
do  it." 

"  If  there  were,  no  one  else  should  do  it,"  she 
said,  with  a  gentle  smile. 

He  gave  her  a  slip  of  paper  on  which  were  the 
necessary  memoranda.  "  And  now — I  must  be  off." 
He  tried  to  make  his  tone  calm  and  business-like. 
He  put  out  his  hand  and,  when  she  gave  him  hers, 
he  held  it.  For  an  instant  each  saw  into  the  depths 
of  the  other's  heart. 

"  No  matter  how  long  you  may  be  away,"  she 
said  in  a  low  voice,  "  remember,  I  shall  be — "  She 
did  not  finish  in  words. 

He  tried  to  speak,  but  could  not.  He  turned  and 
was  almost  at  the  door  before  he  stopped  and  came 
back  to  her.  He  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  she 
could  feel  his  heart  beating  as  if  it  were  trying  to 
burst  through  his  chest.  "  No  matter  how  long," 
she  murmured.  "And  I  shall  not  be  impatient, 
my  love." 

#        *        *        •*        #        *        # 

She  expected  a  reaction  but  none  came.  Instead, 
she  continued  to  feel  a  puzzling  tranquillity.  She 
had  never  loved  him  so  intensely,  yet  she  was 


HIGHWAY  OF  HAPPINESS.      2 


braving  serenely  this  separation  full  of  uncertainties. 
She  tried  to  explain  it  to  herself,  and  finally  there 
came  to  her  a  phrase  which  she  had  often  heard 
years  ago  at  church  —  "  the  peace  that  passeth  all 
understanding." 

"  This  must  be  what  they  meant  by  it,"  she  said 
to  herself.  "  Our  love  is  my  religion." 

The  next  time  she  was  at  Joan's  they  were  not 
together  long  before  Joan  saw  that  there  had  been 
a  marvellous  change  in  her.  "  What  is  it  ?  "  she 
asked.  "  Has  the  tangle  straightened  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  Emily.  "  It  is  worse,  if  anything. 
But  I  have  made  a  new  discovery.  I  have  found 
the  secret  of  happiness." 

"  Love  ?  " 

Emily  shook  her  head.     "  That's  only  part  of  it." 

"  Self-sacrifice  ?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  call  it  sacrifice."  Emily's  face  was 
more  beautiful  than  Joan  had  ever  before  seen  it. 
"  I  think  the  true  name  is  —  self  forgotten  for  love's 
sake." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Joan,  looking  with  expanding 
eyes  at  the  baby-boy  playing  on  the  floor  at  her 
feet. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

LIGHT. 

AFTER  along  and  baffling  search  up  and 
down    through  western    Europe    he 
learned  that  Courtleigh  had  robbed 
her  and  deserted   her,    and   that  she 
was  alone,  under   the  name  of   Mrs. 
Brandon,  at  a  tiny  house  in  Craven  street  near  the 
Strand.     He  lifted  and  dropped  its  knocker,  and  a 
maid-of-all-work  thrust  through  a  crack  in  the  door, 
her  huge  be-frowzled  head  with  its  thin  hair  drawn 
out  at  the  back  over  a  big  wire-frame. 
"How  is   Mrs.    Brandon?"  he  said. 
"  Not  so  well,  thank  you,  sir,"  replied  the  maid, 
looking  at  him  as  suspiciously  as  her  respect  for  the 
upper  classes  permitted. 

"  I  wish  to  see  the  landlady." 
She  instantly  appeared,  thrusting  the  maid  aside 
and  releasing  a  rush  of  musty  air  as  she  opened  the 
door  wide.     She  was  fairly  trembling  with  curiosity. 
"  I  am  Mrs.  Brandon's — next     friend,"   he   said, 
remembering   and   using   the  phrase   which  in  his 
reporter  days   he   had   often  seen    on  the  hospital 
entry-cards.     "  I  am  the  guardian  of  her  child.     I've 
come  to  see  what  can  be  done  for  her." 

His  determined,  commanding  tone  and  manner, 


LIGHT.  325 

and  his  appearance  of  prosperity,  convinced  Mrs. 
Clocker.  "  We've  done  all  we  could,  sir.  But  the 
poor  lady  is  in  great  straits,  sir.  She's  been  most 
unfortunate." 

"  Is  there  a  physician  ?  " 
"  Doctor  Wackle,  just  up  the  way,  sir." 
"  Send  for  him  at  once.     May  I  see  her  ?  " 
The    maid  set     off   up   the   street   and    Stilson 
climbed  a  dingy  first  flight,  a  dingier  second  flight, 
and  came  to  a  low   door  which  sagged  far  from  its 
frame     at    the     top.     He   entered   softly — "  She's 
asleep,  sir,"  whispered  Mrs.  Clocker. 

It  was  a  miserable  room  where  the  last  serious  at 
tempts  to  fight  decay  had  been  made  perhaps  half 
a  century  before.  It  now  presented  queer  con 
trasts — ragged  and  tottering  furniture  strewn  with 
handsome  garments ;  silk  and  lace  and  chiffon 
and  embroidery,  the  latest  Paris  devisings,  crum 
pled  and  tossed  about  upon  patch  and  stain  and 
ruin ;  several  extravagant  hats  and  many  hand 
some  toilet-articles  of  silver  and  gold  and  cut  glass 
spread  in  a  fantastic  jumble  upon  the  dirty  cover 
ings  of  a  dressing-table  and  a  stand.  Against  the 
pillow — its  case  was  neither  new  nor  clean — lay  the 
head  of  Marguerite.  Her  face  was  ugly  with  wrin 
kles  and  hollows,  that  displayed  in  every  light  and 
shade  a  skin  shiny  with  sweat,  and  bluish  yellow. 
Her  hair  was  a  matted  mass  from  which  had  rusted 
the  chemicals  put  on  to  hide  the  streaks  of  gray. 
She  was  in  a  stupor  and  was  breathing  quickly 
and  heavily. 


326      A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

He  had  come,  filled  with  pity  and  even  eager  to 
see  her.  He  was  ashamed  of  the  repulsion  which 
swept  through  him.  Her  face  recalled  all  that  was 
horrible  in  the  past,  foreboded  new  and  greater 
horrors.  He  turned  away  and  left  the  room.  His 
millstone  was  once  more  suspended  from  his  neck. 

Dr.  Wackle  had  come — a  shabby,  young-old  man 
with  thin  black  whiskers  and  damp,  weak  lips.  In 
a  manner  that  was  a  cringing  apology  for  his  own 
existence,  he  explained  that  Marguerite  had  pneu 
monia — that  she  was  dangerously  ill.  He  had 
given  her  up,  but  the  prospect  of  payment  galvan 
ised  hope.  "  There  is  a  chance,  sir,"  he  said. 
"  And  with " 

"  What  is  the  name  and  address  of  the  best  spe 
cialist  in  lung  diseases  ?  "  he  interrupted. 

"  There's  Doctor  Farquhar  in  Half  Moon  Street, 
sir.  He  'as  been  called  by  the  royal  family,  sir." 

"  Take  a  cab  and  bring  him  at  once." 

While  Wackle  was  away,  Stilson  arranged  Mar 
guerite's  account  with  the  landlady  and  had  some 
of  his  belongings  brought  from  the  Carlton  and  put 
into  the  vacant  suite  just  under  Marguerite's. 
After  two  hours  Dr.  Farquhar  came ;  at  his  heels 
Wackle,  humble  but  triumphant.  Stilson  saw  at 
one  sharp  glance  that  here  was  a  man  who  knew  his 
trade — and  regarded  it  as  a  trade. 

"  What  is  your  consultation  fee  ?  " 

Dr.  Farquhar's  suspicious  face  relaxed.  "  Five 
guineas,"  he  said,  looking  the  picture  of  an  English 
middle-class  trader. 


LIGHT.  327 

Stilson  gave  him  the  money.  He  carefully  placed 
the  five-pound  note  in  his  pocket-book  and  the  five 
shillings  in  his  change-purse.  "  Let  me  see  the 
patient,"  he  said,  resuming  the  manner  of  the  small 
soul  striving  to  play  the  part  of  "  great  man."  Stil 
son  led  the  way  to  the  sagged,  hand-grimed  door. 
Farquhar  opened  it  and  entered.  "  This  foul  air  is 
enough  to  cause  death  by  itself,"  he  said  with  a 
sneering  glance  at  Wackle.  "No— let  the  window 
alone  !  " — this  to  Wackle  in  the  tone  a  brutal  master 
would  use  to  his  dog. 

Wackle  stood  as  if  petrified  and  Farquhar  went 
to  the  head  of  the  bed.  Marguerite  opened  her 
eyes  and  closed  them  without  seeing  anything.  He 
laid  his  hand  upon  her  forehead,  then  flung  away 
the  covers  and  listened  at  her  chest.  "  Umph  !  "  he 
grunted  and  with  powerful  hands  lifted  her  by  the 
shoulders.  Grasping  her  still  more  firmly  he  shook 
her  roughly.  Again  he  listened  at  her  chest. 
"  Umph  !  "  he  growled.  He  looked  into  her  face 
which  was  now  livid,  then  shook  her  savagely  and 
listened  again.  He  let  her  drop  back  against  the 
pillows  and  tossed  the  covers  over  her.  He  took 
up  his  hat  which  lay  upon  a  silk-and-lace  dressing 
gown  spread  across  the  foot  of  the  bed.  He  stalked 
from  the  room. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Stilson,  when  they  were  in  the  hall. 

The  great  specialist  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"  She  may  last  ten  hours — but  I  doubt  it.  I  can  do 
nothing.  Good  day,  sir."  And  he  jerked  his  head 
and  went  away. 


328    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

Stilson  stood  in  the  little  hall— Wackle,  the  land 
lady  and  the  maid-of-all-work  a  respectful  group  a 
few  feet  away.  His  glance  wandered  helplessly 
round,  and  there  was  something  in  his  expression 
that  made  Wackle  feel  for  his  handkerchief  and 
Mrs.  Clocker  and  the  maid  burst  into  tears.  Stilson 
went  stolidly  back  to  Marguerite's  room.  He 
paused  at  the  door,  turned  and  descended.  "  Can 
you  stay?  "  he  said  to  Wackle.  "  I  will  pay  you." 

"  Gladly,  sir.     I'll  wait  here  with  Mrs.  Clocker." 

Stilson  reascended,  entered  the  room  and  again 
stood  beside  Marguerite.  With  gentle  hands  he  ar 
ranged  her  pillow  and  the  covers.  Then  he  seated 
himself.  An  hour — two  hours  passed — he  was  not 
thinking  or  feeling  ;  he  was  simply  waiting.  A  stir 
in  the  bed  roused  him.  "  Who  is  there  ?  "  came  in 
Marguerite's  voice,  faintly.  "  Is  it  some  one  ?  or 
am  I  left  all  alone  ?  " 

"  What  can  I  do,  Marguerite  ?  "  Stilson  bent  over 
her. 

She  opened  her  eyes,  without  surprise,  almost 
without  interest.  "  You  ?  "  she  said.  "  Now  they 
won't  dare  neglect  me." 

Her  eyelids  fell  wearily.  Without  lifting  them 
she  went  on:  "How  did  you  find  me?  Never 
mind.  Don't  tell  me.  I'm  so  tired— too  tired  to 
listen." 

"  Are  you  in  pain  ?  "  he  asked. 

«  NO — the  cough  seems  to  be  gone.  I'm  not  go 
ing  to  get  well— am  I  ?  "  She  asked  as  if  she  did 
not  care  to  hear  the  answer. 


LIGHT.  329 

He  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  gently  stroked 
her  forehead.  She  smiled  and  looked  at  him  grate 
fully.  "  I  feel  so — so  safe,"  she  said.  "  It  is  good 
to  have  you  here.  But — oh,  I'm  so,  so  tired.  I 
want  to  rest — and  rest — and  rest." 

"  I'll  sit  here."  He  took  her  hand.  "  You  may 
go  to  sleep.  I'll  not  leave  you." 

"  I  know  you  won't.  You  always  do  what  you 
say  you'll  do."  She  ended  sleepily  and  her  breath 
came  in  swift,  heavy  sighs  with  a  rattling  in  the 
throat.  But  she  soon  woke  again.  "  I'm  tired,"  she 
said.  "  Something — I  guess  it's  life — seems  to 
be  oozing  out  of  my  veins.  I'm  so  tired,  but  so 
comfortable.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  going  to  sleep  and 
nobody,  nothing  would  ever,  ever  wake  me." 

He  thought  she  was  once  more  asleep,  until  she 
said  suddenly :  "  I  was  going  to  write  it,  but  my 
head  whirled  so — he  stole  everything  but  some  notes 
I  had  in  my  stocking.  But  I  don't  care  now.  I 
don't  forgive  him — I  just  don't  care.  What  was  I 
saying — yes — about — about  Mary.  She's  yours  as 
well  as  mine,  Robert — really,  truly,  yours.  I 
made  you  doubt — because — I  don't  know — partly 
because  I  thought  you'd  be  better  off  without  us — 
then,  afterward,  I  didn't  want  you  to  care  any 
more  for  her  than  you  did.  You  believe  me, 
Robert?" 

He  nodded.     «  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  believe  you." 

"  And  you  forgive  me  ?  " 

"  There's  nothing  to  forgive — nothing." 

"  It   doesn't   matter.     I  only  want  to   rest   and 


330    A    WOMAN    VENTURES. 

stop  thinking — and — and — everything.  Will  it  be 
long?" 

"  Not  long,"  he  said  in  a  choked  undertone. 

Presently  she  coughed  and  a  black  fluid  oozed 
hideously  from  her  lips  and  seemed  to  be  threaten 
ing  to  strangle  her.  He  called  the  doctor  who  gave 
her  an  opiate. 

"  Come  with  me,  sir,"  said  Wackle  in  a  hoarse, 
sick-room  whisper,  "  Mrs.  docker  has  spread  a  nice 
cold  lunch  for  you." 

Stilson  waved  him  away.  Alone  again,  he  swept 
the  finery  from  the  sofa  and  stretched  himself 
there.  Trivial  thoughts  raced  through  his  burning 
brain — the  height  and  width  of  the  candle  flames, 
the  pattern  of  the  wall  paper,  the  tracery  of  cracks 
in  the  ceiling,  the  number  of  yards  of  lace  and  of 
goods  in  the  dresses  heaped  on  the  floor.  As  his 
thoughts  flew  from  trifle  to  trifle,  his  head  ached 
fiercely  and  his  skin  felt  as  if  it  were  baking  and 
cracking. 

Then  came  a  long  sigh  and  a  rattling  in  the 
throat  from  the  woman  in  the  bed.  He  started  up. 
"  Marguerite !  "  he  called.  He  looked  down  at 
her.  She  sighed  again,  stretched  herself  at  full 
length,  settled  her  head  into  the  pillow.  "  Mar 
guerite,"  he  said.  And  he  bent  over  her.  "Are 
you  there  ?  "  he  whispered.  But  he  knew  that  she 
was  not. 

He  took  the  candle  from  the  night  stand  and 
held  it  above  his  head.  The  dim  flame  made  his 
living  face  old  and  sorrow-seamed,  while  her  dead 


LIGHT.  331 

face  looked  smooth,  almost  young.  Her  expression 
of  rest,  of  peaceful  dreams,  of  care  forever  fled, 
brought  back  to  him  a  far  scene.  He  could  hear 
the  crash  of  the  orchestra,  the  stirring  rhythm  of  a 
Spanish  dance ;  he  could  see  the  stage  of  the  Gold 
and  Glory  as  he  had  first  seen  it — the  bright  back 
ground  of  slender,  girlish  faces  and  forms ;  and  in 
the  foreground,  slenderest  and  most  girlish  of  all, 
Marguerite — the  embodiment  of  the  motion  and 
music  of  the  dance,  the  epitome  of  the  swift-pulsing 
life  of  the  senses. 

He  knelt  down  beside  the  bed  and  took  her  dead 
hand.  "  Good-bye,  Rita,"  he  sobbed.  "  Good-bye, 
good-bye  !  " 

******* 

Suddenly  the  day  broke  and  the  birds  in  the 
eaves  began  to  chirp,  to  twitter,  to  sing.  He  rose, 
and  with  the  sombre  and  clinging  shadows  of  the 
past  and  the  present  there  was  mingled  a  light — 
faint,  evasive,  as  yet  itself  a  shadow.  But  it  was 
light — the  forerunner  of  the  dawn  of  anew  day  upon 
a  new  land  where  his  heart  should  sing  as  in  the 
days  of  his  youth. 


THE   END. 


DATE  DUE 


WTERL1BRARV 

LOAN    RFPVir 

F 

THE   UMiVFRC1 
UNIVERSITY    0 

TY    LIBRARY 
F  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  CRUZ, 

WAY  1 

CALIFORNIA    9 

'  1977 

5064 

MAY 

Q  1  prp'n 

lilH  1 

0  t  KLu  U 

| 

, 

•**  " 

mW^wj 

^A  fr"^  \  r 

GAYLCRD 

PRINTEOINU.S.A. 

STORED  AT  NRLF 


PS3531  .H5W6 


3  2106  00213  7203 


